


South Park Confidential (continued)

by FayOfTheForest



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Antisemitism, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, But don't worry not all of it is, Corruption, Craig has resting bitch face, Detective Noir, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illustration, Internalized Homophobia, Just read the fic it'll be worth it I promise, M/M, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Slurs, The Love Is Requited They're Just Idiots, Yeah that probably doesn't make sense, like seriously slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 132,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayOfTheForest/pseuds/FayOfTheForest
Summary: It's 1948 and P.I. Stan Marsh is tasked with the case of a lifetime: ensuring Chief of Police Eric Cartman never bothers anyone again. Begrudgingly, he seeks the help of young paralegal Kyle Broflovski. The pair soon realise that this is not going to be a clean, open-and-shut sort of case. It looks like this rot goes all the way to the core...Meanwhile, Tweek Tweak has been assigned one job: turn Cartman's cronies against him. In order to do that, he'll have to crack officer Craig's stoic outer shell. Is he prepared for what he might find within? Only time will tell...(This is an unofficial continuation of Deephurting's "South Park Confidential", written but never finished in 2016 - linked in the notes. It's a real treat to read, so I highly recommend you do! It shouldn't take you too long to catch up, it's only about 16k words :) Plus, this may not make a lot of sense if you don't, haha)
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak, Kenny McCormick/Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 74
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [South Park Confidential](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6418384) by [Deephurting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deephurting/pseuds/Deephurting). 



> Hello! Just a little heads-up: Parts of this fic discuss some potentially triggering topics, such as police brutality and war-related trauma. I will provide content warnings for each chapter in their end notes. This is so anyone who needs to can be properly prepared, but anyone who wishes to avoid spoilers can do so! Other things, such as sexual content, will also be forwarned. If you have any specific triggers, do let me know and I will tag them as well!
> 
> I've had a lot of fun writing this story, so I do hope you enjoy it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter rewritten on the 11th of February 2021)

The bathroom door was open a crack. Kenny always left it like this when he showered, so he could hear the wireless well enough to sing along to. He was no virtuoso, but what he lacked in talent he more than made up for in confidence. Butters liked hearing him sing. The sound of his voice lit up their dingy one-room apartment, if only for a moment.

Even now, when Butters had his head stuck in a cupboard, rooting around for something to call lunch, he could hear Kenny singing. He wished, for the umpteenth time, that they could afford to eat good food. Or even any food at all, for their pantry was stark bare, save a dusty packet of dry noodles. He took it out and trotted to the bathroom door.

“How do you feel about noodles for lunch?” he asked, poking his head in.

Kenny twisted around to face him. “What?”

“Noodles.” Butter’s presented the dusty packet like a huntsman who’d shot a fine partridge. “Ta-da!”

“Oh, right.” Kenny did not mirror his enthusiasm. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and though Butters knew this was just how Kenny got sometimes, without explanation, he always felt strangely guilty about it.

“Are you mad at me?” Butters asked.

“No!” Kenny said quickly. He found a smile, and put it on, but it looked all wrong, crooked in his haste to cover up his melancholy.

Butters sighed and looked down at the plastic pack in his hand. “One a’ these days, Kenny, we’ll find a real rich guy to guck. He’ll pay us a tidy little fortune to keep quiet, and we’ll move to Hawaii, and live in some fancy beach house for the rest of time.”

Kenny’s expression softened. “Sure, Butters. One of these days. We’ve just gotta stick it out till then.”

That was how Kenny and Butters lived. Sticking it out. Scrounging from paycheque to paycheque, watching Garrison take bigger and bigger cuts each time, waiting for the day their luck would turn around. Kenny liked to remind him that in that way they were like everybody else in this city. Just waiting for things to get better. But Butters had never really felt at home here, regardless of whatever class solidarity Kenny cited.

A succession of knocks sounded at the door.

“Can you get that?” Kenny asked. “I’ve still got soap in my hair.”

“I don’t think that’s the least presentable part about you,” Butters said, taking one last eyeful of a very naked Kenny before shutting the door behind him, heading to silence the knocking that was growing more and more desperate. It was odd, he thought, to have so many visitors in one afternoon. Stan and Kyle had only just left.

It quickly became apparent that Stan and Kyle had not left at all, for their stricken faces greeted Butters as he opened the front door.

“Well, hi-de-ho, fellas,” Butters beamed. He was nothing if not a polite host. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Kyle’s forehead creased. He was gripping a photograph with knuckle-whitening intensity. “Again? But we weren’t—Um…” He exchanged an ambiguous look with Stan. “Were we?”

Stan rubbed his temples, as if the memory were hazy, painful.

Butters couldn’t make head nor tails of that, and so he simply said, “You’ll be wanting Kenny again, I suppose. I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

“Oh, Butters,” Stan said quietly. He extended an arm and placed it stiffly on Butters’ shoulder, an awkward gesture of condolence. “That’s why we’re here. Last night—”

Stan was cut short by Kenny strolling out of the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped lazily around his waist. His blond hair was damp and stuck up every which way at once, but at least it was soap-free. He did not seem to notice the visitors standing at the door, beelining instead for the limescale stricken kettle in their kitchenette.

Kyle’s gaze pinballed back and forth between the photo and Kenny, like if he looked at one for too long, the other might cease to exist. He scowled. “What kind of—”

“Fucking game am I playing?” Kenny didn’t look up. He sounded almost bored. “You’re here to break the news that I’m dead, I presume.”

Stan’s grip had tightened on Butter’s shoulder to a painful degree. “Kenny—”

“What am I talking about?” Definitely bored. “No, please, try another one. I know all the lines off by heart.” He opened a cabinet door and removed two chipped mugs, along with a tub of instant coffee grounds, back still turned to them. “Here, I’ll save us the time. Kyle, you’ll flap that photo under my nose, and Stan, you’ll give me that look you always do when you think I’m talking shit, and Butters—” He stopped. The muscles in his bare back tensed. “Well, anyway. I’m going to tell you I can’t die now, so keep your drama to a minimum, won’t you?” Kenny pivoted to face them; lips pursed. “And shut the damn door.”

“Oh, let me do that for you,” Butters said to Kenny, shooing him out of the way so he could finish making the coffee as Stan and Kyle stepped into the apartment.

“I can do it,” Kenny said.

“Please,” Butters said. “It’s the least I can do.” He had a strange, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew this conversation. He hated this conversation.

Kyle was glaring at Kenny like he’d done this all just to spite them. “You’ve still not offered any explanation for all this,” he snapped.

“I _did_. Are you even listening to me?” Kenny sighed, like a teacher with a disobedient student. He strode across the floor until he was standing just inches from Kyle, who swallowed, and couldn’t meet his eye. Kenny spoke slowly and deliberately. “I. Cannot. Die.” He flicked Kyle’s forehead. “Capiche?”

Kyle grumbled something unintelligible.

“Great,” Kenny smiled. “Well, I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way. I’m going to take this now,” he said, plucking the photograph from Kyle’s trembling hands. “Dunno why I thought that would work anyway. And hey,” he put a finger under Kyle’s jaw and tilted his head up, “my eyes are up here, sunshine. You gotta pay if you want to ogle at anything from the neck down.”

Kyle turned bright red, which was of course Kenny’s desired effect, and took a hasty step back, scowling. Butters couldn’t help but roll his eyes at this exchange. If there was one thing Kenny loved, it was flirting. Butters didn’t mind that so much – in their line of work it was unavoidable – but he didn’t want to see Kyle riled up. The last thing they needed was for him to blow his top.

Stan was clearly thinking on the same wavelength, for he took a protective step between Kyle and Kenny. “Okay, Kenny,” he said slowly, “let’s say I believe you. I believe that you can’t die.”

“You always do,” Kenny slapped him on the back. “That’s what I love about you. Now fuck off.”

“We’re not done here,” Stan said firmly. “I still have a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” Kenny said, tearing a corner off one of the old _South Park Gazettes_ lying around. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You got a pen?”

“Uh, sure.” Stan produced one from his pocket.

Kenny took it and scrawled something on the scrap of paper. Butters set down Kenny’s coffee on the counter next to him and peeked over his shoulder to see what he wrote.

_Skeeter’s with Kenny at eight o’clock. Don’t be late. I’m still not fucking dead._

Kenny presented it Stan. “I’m tired and I’m hungry. I’m going to drink my luxurious coffee and eat my gourmet noodles and go back to bed. And then we’ll reconvene, and I’ll tell you what you need to know. Got it?”

Stan looked up from reading the note and gave him an incredulous look. Butters thought he might refuse and demand immediate answers, but that was not the point he chose to contest. “Why the hell are you telling _me_ not to be late? You’re the one who’s usually late!”

Kenny yawned and stretched, stomach muscles pulling taught. His towel slipped down just a fraction of an inch further, which Butters would bet was deliberate, given the horrified look it elicited from Kyle. “Yes, but I’m _fashionably_ late. And it wouldn’t do if we both show up like that.” Kenny cocked a lazy grin. “Now beat it. I’ll see you later.”

\---

When the four met again, Kenny was wearing considerably more clothes. Stan and Kyle were already seated at one of the tables near the back, hunched over in serious discussion when the couple arrived – ten minutes late, of course. Kyle kept glancing around at the other bar patrons, as if at any point one of them might jump him. Stan cleared his throat when he noticed Kenny and Butters approaching, and their conversation came to an abrupt stop. “What’s all this about, Kenny?” he asked, brandishing the note at him. “What do you mean, you’re not dead?”

Kenny gave him a withering look. “Oh, I’m _so_ glad you asked.” Setting his drink down on the sticky table, he slid into one of the two empty chairs, Butters by his side. Kenny pulled out the photo of his previously dead body from his parka pocket and flicked it at Stan.

Stan caught it. He studied it and drew in a sharp breath. “What the hell?” He showed it to Kyle.

With little enthusiasm, Kenny walked them through the order of last night’s events. “You paid me to fuck Cartman, but he wasn’t in the cheeriest of spirits. Turns out he remembered me, from when he booked me for prostitution last year. Guess he saw it as a prime opportunity to take his stress out on a nasty little criminal like me.” He put two fingers in his mouth and went, _“Pow!”_

Stan flinched at the sound. “How is that possible?” he asked. “How come we don’t remember any of that? And how come you’re—” he glanced down at the note, “’still not fucking dead?’”

“Movie magic, baby.” Kenny flashed him an inauthentic toothy smile. “I just can’t stay dead. Whenever I kick the bucket, no one remembers.”

Stan took a long gulp of his whiskey. “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

“You always do.” Kenny raised his glass at him, then turned to Kyle. “Well? Aren’t you gonna ask what kind of fucking game I’m playing?”

Kyle opened his mouth, then closed it. “No,” he said reluctantly. “If Stan trusts you, then I guess I do to.”

“Marvellous,” Kenny said. “Now, the only reason I’m explaining all this again is because I’m hoping you’ll remember what I’ve got to tell you next.”

“Which is?” Stan asked.

“I’m the wrong man for your job. The photos you’ve got of Cartman getting trigger-happy won’t do shit, because everyone will forget what he did the moment they look up from their paper.”

Butters eyed Kenny thoughtfully, but stayed silent.

“Oh,” Stan said. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I guess you’re right.”

“I’m keeping the hundred dollars, though.” Kenny said. “Sunk costs.”

Stan chuckled. “I think the fuck you’re not.”

“Come on, man!” Kenny stuck out his tongue at him. “Don’t be a skinflint. I know you’ve got some rich-ass client paying for all this anyway.”

“You were hired to fuck Cartman, not to get impermanently murdered,” Stan said. “You didn’t do your job. Why should I pay you for it?”

“I took a bullet for you!” Kenny crossed his arms. “The least you can do is let me have a little compensation.”

“But—”

“Please?” Kenny whined. “Pretty please?” He batted his eyelashes and pouted. “For your old pal Kenny?”

“Don’t make a scene,” Stan scolded. He sat back in his chair and sighed. “Well, given the circumstances, I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Lucky, lucky me,” Kenny crooned, rubbing his hands together. “I should go about getting myself shot more often.”

Kyle, who’d wordlessly observed this exchange, finally spoke. “Kenny, did Cartman mention what it was that got him so wound up?”

Kenny frowned, straining to recall. “Some dame, I think. Didn’t say who she was, just called her a lovely long list of pet names.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, all the old classics,” he smirked. “Bitch, skank, gadabout, whore.”

“How romantic.”

“Yeah, it’s true love alright. Whoever she was, she sure did get under his skin. Enough for him to get under mine.”

Kyle and Stan exchanged glances.

“Well, I guess we’d better find someone else to do the job,” Stan said, steering the conversation back on track. “Know anyone, Kenny?”

“I’ll do it.”

All three heads turned to stare at Butters in shock.

“What?” Out of all of them, Kenny seemed the most taken aback by this.

“I said I’ll do it.” Butters set his shoulders determinedly, but being all of five foot three, this was not all that imposing. “I’ll fuck Cartman, and you can take pictures.”

Stan shrugged. “Okay,” he said, just as Kenny snapped, “Absolutely fucking not.”

Butters looked at him, hurt. “Why not?”

“It’s too risky!”

“I know it is,” he said confidently. “That’s why they’re gonna pay two hundred for it.”

Stan almost choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

“Kenny’s right, Stan, it’s a dangerous job. There’s no telling Cartman won’t flip his wig again. That’s why you need an expert.”

Kenny looked offended. “What does that make me, then?”

“ _Dead_ , Kenny.” Butters looked at him coldly. “You’re dead. You know damned well if you tried it with Cartman again, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, no matter how little he remembers.”

“So then why would I let you go in my place?”

“You’re not _letting_ me do anything, Kenny.” Butters gritted his teeth. “This is my decision! And—Oh, don’t you roll your eyes at me!”

“I didn’t!”

“You did!” Butters crossed his arms. “You always do this! You treat me like a child.”

“Well, right now you’re acting like one!” Their voices were rising, and they were starting to attract attention from others around them.

“Maybe we should talk about this some other time,” Kyle said, swallowing nervously. “Perhaps this isn’t the place.”

Butters took in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Look,” he said in a measured tone. “I’ve had a lot of experience with difficult customers. I always manage to sort things out just fine. I can handle Cartman. I _know_ I can.”

“But—” Kenny began, and Butters shot him a warning glance. A silent argument took place between them.

Butters won.

“Fine,” Kenny harumphed. “But I’m coming with you guys, just in case. And it’ll cost four hundred, not two.”

Stan snorted. “It most certainly will not.”

“Hey, this is a quality service he’s providing.” Kenny threw up his arms. “I know first-hand the kind of skills Butters has.”

Butters gasped and hit Kenny’s chest. “Don’t say that!”

Kyle’s eyes went wide. He stared down at his glass and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Stan was not phased. He knocked back his drink and met Kenny’s gaze. “I’ll not go higher than two hundred, man.”

Kenny set his jaw. “Too bad. You’re gonna have to.”

“Then we’re done here.” Stan stood to leave, and Kyle snapped to his feet, clearly eager to get as far away from this establishment as possible.

Butters opened his mouth to protest, but Kenny put a hand on his knee. “Just wait,” he muttered. “I know Stan better than he knows himself.” The pair watched as Stan stalked to the door. Kyle trailed behind him; eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Butters held his breath and let it all out when he heard the tinkle of the bell. They were gone.

“Oh gee,” he said sadly. “We could have really used that money.”

Kenny glanced at the clock on the wall. “I give it two minutes.”

And sure enough, in two minutes he was back. “Two fifty.”

Kenny shook his head. “Three fifty is as low as I’ll go.”

Stan leant on the table. “Two seventy-five. I’ll go no higher than that.”

Kenny feigned consideration. He’d known all along he’d never get above three hundred, but the only way to barter with Stan was to make him think he was the winner. “Done,” he said, then mimed tipping a hat. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Stan reached over and finished Kenny’s drink. “I really hate you sometimes,” he said.

Kenny gave him a shit-eating grin. “I know.”

“See you next week. Same time, different place. You know the Blunderbuss Motel?”

“All too well.”

“Good.” He left. Kyle was hot on his heels but turned to glance back behind him before he ducked out the door. Kenny winked and blew him a kiss. Kyle’s jaw dropped, and he looked around quickly to see if anyone had witnessed that. With a farewell scowl, he disappeared.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kenny said to Butters. “I’m too tired to work tonight.”

Butters was finishing his drink silently, gazing into the middle distance.

“You okay?” Kenny asked.

Butters blinked, coming back down to earth. “Uh, yeah,” he said, rising. “Yeah, I’m okay.

The two left the bar together without saying much else, each stewing in their own thoughts. They made it a full two blocks before Kenny broke the silence. “I’m sorry for rolling my eyes at you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry if you think I—I don’t know, belittle you, or something. I’m just…” He trailed off and chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’m scared, you know? I’m really scared. If something were to happen to you—” His voice caught in his throat.

“I know,” Butters said. “It’ll be alright. When this is all over, maybe—maybe we can get a nicer place. Three hundred and seventy-five dollars in total. That’s a lot of money, you know.”

“Don’t you want to save it?” Kenny asked. “For Hawaii?”

Butters might have kissed him then, if they weren’t in public, but instead he just took Kenny’s hand and squeezed it quickly. “Hawaii can wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Sex references.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a link to the song referenced: “Rum and Coca-Cola” by The Andrew Sisters - https://youtu.be/WiayZdPESno 
> 
> (I can't figure out how to actually insert the link properly so you'll have to copy + paste it or look for it on Spotify. It's a nice lil bop so I recommend it! :)

This was a bad idea. This was a very, very bad idea.

Tweek shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited at the mouth of the alleyway behind the old train station. The road was lit by a series of streetlamps, spread out in regular succession, like a march of rusty soldiers. The one closest to him kept flickering on and off at random, which set him on edge. The alley itself was long enough and dark enough that he couldn’t see then other side of it: an endless walkway, adorned with litter and old rotting newspapers, and probably a needle or two.

An unforgiving breeze blew through the empty streets, nipping and biting at Tweek’s sallow cheeks. He shivered and pulled his green army jacket tighter around his scrawny frame. This was not his idea of a fun way to spend a Tuesday night. He didn’t know this area of town too well, but luckily enough the streets were deserted, save for the occasional rat which would venture out to peruse the pavements for any food that careless individuals dropped during the day. Just a moment ago, one had scampered over his foot, which had made him shriek, embarrassingly loudly. His skin crawled.

What the hell was Tweek even doing here? Meeting some guy he barely knew, in some dingy little sidestreet, at this time of night? He was asking to get mugged, or stabbed, or killed. He could see it now: Craig, emerging from the shadows, brandishing a bayonet. In one swift motion, he’d slip it right between Tweek’s ribs, and stand over him as he watched the life drain out of his eyes, that stony serious expression never slipping for a second.

Tweek shook his head, as if clearing a fog. Who carries a bayonet on them anyway? That was absurd, he told himself. It was far more likely to be a switchblade, which was worse. Somehow, dying by a small flip-out knife seemed a more humiliating way to go. Not that anyone would know, because no one would find his body, anyway. No one would find him because no one would look for him, because no one would care. Not one person would-

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if he could beat the intrusive thoughts out of there. He checked his watch compulsively, even though he knew what time it was, because he’d only check sixteen seconds ago: 2354. Craig was four minutes late. Bastard.

Tweek hated it when people were late. He liked to know when and where things were going on at all times, or else something bad could happen. He did not like unpredictability in general, really, which was in part why he felt maybe he didn’t like Craig either, because everything about him was unpredictable. He was impossible to read: stone faced, steely-eyed. He’d barely even said three words to him when they’d met the other night, excluding the incident in the bathroom, which Tweek was so ashamed of that he’d begun to convince himself that maybe it didn’t happen at all, actually. Maybe it was just another thing he’d imagined. He’d done that before, or so he’d been told. Fuck, maybe Craig himself wasn’t even real. Maybe he was just another--

“Tweek,” a deep voice from behind him said, and Tweek jumped out of his skin.

“Aack!” He shrieked, wrapping his arms defensively over his head and whirling to face his offender.

Craig loomed before him. Everything about him was harsh edges: strong jaw, high cheekbones, a straight nose that started just a little too high on his face. His brow seemed to be set in a permanent furrow, and his mouth was a thin line with a thin cigarette poking out between his thin lips. He had on a blue chullo-style hat, pulled over his ears to fend off the bitter winter air, but tufts of his ink-black hair poked out from beneath, tousled. He was out of his uniform tonight, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his navy blue trench coat, collar flipped up.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Tweek grumbled, straightening up and lowering his hands, but not before impulsive tugging on a chunk of his own blond hair.

“I didn’t,” Craig said flatly, “That was the third time I said your name.”

“Oh,” Tweek scuffed his shoe on the pavement, embarrassed, “Right. I guess I was someplace else.”

“Well, glad you’re back,” Craig said, in a voice that did not make it sound like he was very glad at all. Without another word, he turned, and bega to head up the alleyway. He did not apologise for being four minutes late, an oversight which Tweek did not appreciate one bit.

Tweek considered bringing this up, but resisted, and reluctantly followed him into the dark. Shadows towered threateningly on the smog-stained concrete walls, as if lying in wait. “Where are we going?” he asked nervously. He could only see in silhouettes. 

“This way,” the Craig-shaped shadow said, a statement which was as obvious as it was obsolete.

“Well, what’s this way?” Tweek persisted, but the man just shrugged.

“Where we’re going.”

Tweek decided he did not like Craig much at all. As they continued, moving almost blindly now, his foot sank down on something soft and squishy. He jumped and suppressed a shriek. He carried on, but a disgusted shiver snaked its way down his spine and settled in his stomach.

They were nearing the end now, an undeniable brick wall. Tweek began to wonder if he was a lamb being led to slaughter, when Craig halted suddenly. He started down a flight of metal stairs which Tweek hadn’t noticed before, and since there was nowhere else to go, he followed, keeping a consistent three steps behind. Craig reached the bottom, at a firmly shut door. Light shone from in between the cracks in the seal between the door and the frame, giving it an almost heavenly glow. The wood was painted red, though there were more chips in it than actual paint. Craig balled his fist and knocked, slow and deliberate, six times. 

The letterbox, which was at eye height, flipped open, and a pair of eyes peeked out. “Password?”

Craig rolled his eyes. “It’s me. You know it’s me.”

“Password,” he repeated, more assertive this time.

“Open the fucking door, Bradley.”

The door was reluctantly opened, to reveal a considerably unintimidating blond bowl-cut man, dressed in a monochrome black shirt and pants. He crossed his arms, but only succeeded in maintaining the appearance of a stroppy toddler, rather than an imposing doorman. “That’s not the password.”

“Funny, cause it works every time,” Craig barged past him without hesitation. 

Tweek made to follow, but Bradley put a preventative hand on his chest. Tweek flinched back from the man’s touch. 

“Hold your horses,” Bradley said, eying Tweek suspiciously. “Craig, who the hell’s this guy?”

“Why, you looking to pick him up?” Craig retorted, and his tone was almost bored. 

The scowl deepened on Bradley’s brow. “Gotta be careful, man. I can’t just let anyone in, you know, or-”

“Relax, jackass,” he put his hands on Bradley’s shoulders and steered him out of the way, “You don’t gotta worry. This is Tweek. He’s a dear, dear friend of mine.” The deadpan delivery did nothing to assuage Tweek’s growing distaste of Craig.

“Alrighty, then,” Bradley said, gesturing for Tweek to pass, “But if he turns out to be a dirty rat, then I’m telling Jimmy it was you who vouched for him.”

“You heard the fella,” Craig wagged a finger sarcastically at Tweek, “You’d better be on your best behaviour. No stealing the silverware, and no setting any fires.” He set off down the second flight of stairs before either of them could respond, leaving Tweek to shrink under one last glare from Bradley before trotting off behind him.

Their footsteps echoed in the tinny acoustics of the stairwell, and mingled with the distant sound of music. “What was that all about?” Tweek hissed, glancing behind him at where Bradley was stationed. 

“Ah, Bradley’s not too bad,” Craig waved a hand dismissively, “The thing to remember is he’s more afraid of you than you are of him.” They arrived at the landing, and to a closed door. Craig reached for the handle, but Tweek stopped him.

“Wait!”

Craig turned to him, expressionless.

“Wh-what is this place?” Tweek asked skittishly. He did not like heading blindly into unknown territory like this, and their recent interaction had only served to inflate his anxieties.

“Oh,” Craig said, “Right. Welcome to Jimmy’s Ritz.” He opened the door. 

The sound of a live swing band and chattering diners rolled out like a wave and hit him in the face. Tweek peered hesitantly inside, like a child checking for monsters in his closet, and his jaw dropped. It was a bar, and though not large, it was populated with a collection of waiters weaving their way through a small sea of round tables, inhabited by seedy-looking diners. The lighting was low, so that he couldn’t quite make out anyone’s face from this distance, and he wondered if this was intentional. There was a stage on the right, where the band was performing a rendition of “Rum and Coca-Cola”, with the accompaniment of a chorus of girls with their calves on show. At the other end was a bar, where more customers mingled, talking and laughing merrily. 

Tweek wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this sure wasn’t it.

A man wearing a black shirt with too few buttons undone greeted them. “Oh, hey Craig! Long time, no see. Can I find you fellas a seat?” he offered.

“I reckon we’ll find our own just fine,” Craig waved him away. He made for a table positioned at the back, which Tweek was glad of. It only had one chair, so Craig took an empty one from another table without asking. He sat, but Tweek just hovered nervously. 

He looked around agitatedly, taking in the sights, assessing the situation. His hands twitched at his side, fists clenching and unclenching in small rapid jerks. He noted how most people were wearing smartish clothes, but everyone looked a little worn around the edges. The atmosphere was relaxed, casual, but this only made Tweek feel more uneasy.

“You can sit too, you know,” Craig prompted, “It won’t cost you.”

Tweek sat, perching on the edge of the seat as if ready to leap out at any moment.

Craig flagged a waitress, and the brunette approached. She was small, with roundish cheeks and a roundish body. She wore a black button-up dress, same as all the other dolls who worked here, and had an apron tied around her curvy waist which might have once been white, but was stained and weathered a yellowish grey.

“Hi there, Craig!” She simpered. Her voice was as noxious and as sweet as her smile. “Been a while since I’ve seen you round here.”

“Yeah, well,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly, “Been a while since I’ve felt like coming back.”

“Yeah, well I missed you. Things sure do get dull in here.” She cast a distasteful look around the joint. “I swear, the folks in here get blander by the day.”

The ‘folks in here’ did not look too bland to Tweek. In fact, he felt they could do with being quite a lot more bland; it would certainly make him less on edge. 

“You mean they’re gettin’ bored of listening to you yap?” Craig smirked at her.

She pouted at him, “Same difference.” She turned to Tweek, as if noticing him for the first time. “Oh! Who you got with you tonight?”

Craig waited for him to introduce himself, but Tweek just stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes, like a deer in headlights. “Heidi, this is Tweek,” Craig took the initiative to answer on behalf of him.

“Tweek?” Heidi frowned, “That’s a funny name.”

Tweek was fairly confident he didn’t ask for her opinion. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “I-I got weird parents.” Real cool, Tweek, he thought to himself. Real cool. He squirmed under her scrutinous gaze, self conscious, looking as out of place as he felt.

She tilted her head to one side, and said brightly, “Well, I like it! It suits you.” 

Tweek was not sure that he should take this as a compliment.

She squinted at him, then asked eagerly, “How’d you get that black eye?”

The bruise wasn’t as bad as it had been the last time he’d met Craig. The swelling had decreased considerably and it had faded from purple to a sickly yellow color. However, it was still very noticeable, accentuated by his hollow cheeks and untamable blond hair that made it look like he’d gone through a hedge backwards. 

Tweek was in the midst of fumbling for some sort of answer, but Craig saved his skin. “Heidi, if you asked everyone in this dump how they got their bruises, you’d never get any actual serving done.” He paused, pointedly, “Not that you get much of that done anyway.”

Heidi gasped and smacked him on the shoulder. “You’re so mean, Craig!” she whined, but the sparkle in her eye made it clear she wasn’t really hurt. She turned back to Tweek, and said, “Well, I’ll just have to go about making up a story for it in my head, then.” 

Tweek didn’t like the sound of that.

“Anyway,” Heidi finally got around to doing what she was paid to do, “What can I get you two?”

“I’ll have the usual, thanks,” Craig said.

“And how about you, sweety?” 

“Um, just a coffee,” Tweek said. “Irish- um, with whiskey. P-please.” His voice cracked a little.

“Coming right up!” She bustled away, almost immediately bumping into another server, trying to navigate the intricacies of the tables. He spilled the drink he’d been carrying, and glowered at her in annoyance, but she just carried on, merrily oblivious. 

The song the band was playing ended, and everyone applauded. Tweek flinched at the sudden eruption of sound. He shifted his weight in his seat restlessly.

“You okay, man?” Craig had picked up on his discomfort.

“Yeah,” Tweek swallowed hard, “Just- just an unusual sort of place.” He looked around, “More people than I’m used to.”

“Yeah, I’m not such a fan of them myself,” Craig agreed, scanning the crowd with a look of mild distaste. “I was hoping it would be a little more dead in here tonight.”

“What- what is this place exactly?” Tweek had never seen anything quite like it in his life.

“It’s a speakeasy,” Craig answered, “Or at least, it was. ‘Bout twenty years ago, when prohibition was still around, folk would come here to get pissed and police were paid off to turn a blind eye. Course, those laws have been lifted now, but it’s still a good place to go if you wanna avoid the cops. Old habits take a while to shake from the force.”

“So how come you come here, then?” Tweek asked.

“I wanna avoid running into my coworkers just as much as anyone else does,” he said, “Especially a select few. And, especially tonight.”

“And why’s that?”

“Cause of what you’re gonna tell me,” he said to Tweek in a steady voice, “Bout who really gave you that black eye you’re sporting.”

Tweek’s breath caught in his throat. 

At this moment, Heidi returned with their drinks, and Tweek had never thought he’d ever be so glad to see her again.

“Here you go, fellas,” she set them on the table. She lingered for a second, but when it became apparent that she was not invited into their conversation, she beat it.

“Well?” Craig asked when she was safely out of earshot.

Tweek decided he didn’t have a choice but to stick to his story. “I already told you, man. It was Cartman.”

“Yeah, I know what you told me. But I also know a liar when I see one.”

“Well, I ain’t a liar,” Tweek said, a mask of genuity. Inwardly, he was getting ticked off at this persistent accusation, no matter how true it was. “Anyway, what makes you so confident I am? You some kind of expert?”

“Sure,” Craig shrugged, “I guess you could say that.” When Tweek raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, he continued. “Look, despite what you might think, I don’t spend all my time harassing innocents on the street, you know. My job’s mainly to interrogate the perps we pick up. Sometimes, Clyde’ll chip in, and we do ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ together, and they always - always - crack. So, I’ve had a lotta practice.”

“Oh, you mean you get to harass the innocents in a quaint little room, too?” Tweek snapped, and then wished he hadn’t. He looked anxiously at Craig out of the corner of his eye, trying to gage if he was offended, but as always, his expression was unreadable. 

That was, until the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. “That’s why I gotta be good at sorting the liars from the honest, ain’t it? Half the people they send me happen to have done nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Exhibit A,” Tweek gestured to his black eye with more confidence than he had. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Craig shook his head, “That’s just it, man. I don’t think that’s true.”

Tweek was beginning to wonder why it was again that he was sticking around this guy in the first place. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He took a swig of his coffee in an attempt to prolong the silence, but pulled a face as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. “God, this is awful!”

Craig snorted, “I know, everything here is. It’s bootleg - they still homebrew their own shit, like from back in the day.”

“Why?” Tweek said in utter bafflement, staring down at the sludgy muck which had the audacity to call itself a drink.

“Beats me,” Craig shrugged, “Guess they wanna keep the tradition alive.”

“This thing doesn’t taste very alive,” Tweek grumbled, “It tastes like something died and then they distilled it.”

“Not too loud, now,” Craig kicked him under the table, “Don’t want Heidi to hear you, and she might not give me my discount.”

“How come you get a discount in the first place?”

“Cause I put up with her blabbermouth.”

As if she could sense she was their new focus, Heidi looked over to them, and wiggled her fingers in a cheery wave. Craig actually smiled back, which surprised Tweek. If there was one thing he’d learnt about the man so far, it was that he was not prone to fits of joviality.

Tweek mulled over this interaction with a thoughtful expression. He looked from Craig to Heidi, then back to Craig again. They sure seemed comfortable around each other, and pretty close, too. “Is she-” he stopped, then started again. “Craig, are you two…” he trailed off, but the implication was clear enough.

“What, are we goin’ out?” Craig actually laughed at that. “Yeah, no. She’s not really my type.”

Tweek had the strange urge to ask who exactly his type was, but he resisted it.

“We’re just good friends, is all,” Craig continued. “I’ve known her ever since I moved to South Park, ‘bout two or three years ago. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know about this place.”

Tweek was about to ask how they’d met, but he didn’t get the chance to, because the man ploughed on.

“Anyway, nice job changing the subject,” Craig jabbed a knowing finger at him. 

Tweek swore under his breath. Damn. “Look, man,” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” He fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth, pulling it taught between his bony fingers.

“How about the truth?”

And, just for a moment, Tweek actually considered it. Maybe he should. If he told him that his sleuth buddy Stan had paid him to turn the force against Cartman, there was a chance that Craig might be able to help. It sure would be a lot more effective if he had someone on the inside. Or, maybe Craig would blow his top. Maybe knowing that Tweek had actually made up the whole thing would make him wonder just what else Tweek was lying about. Maybe he’d feel betrayed. Maybe he’d get mad. Maybe he’d get violent. The image of Craig standing above him in the dark alley in stone faced victory as he bled to death by his hand returned, enriched and emboldened by the motive Tweek’s mind was constructing.

“You okay man?” Craig - real Craig, not psychopathic murderer Craig - peered at him in concern. “You look a little queasy.” He paused, choosing his next words wisely. “Listen, Tweek, is someone… is someone hurting you? Like, on the regular?” His voice was low, but surprisingly gentle. “Is someone doin’ bad things to you? You can talk to me, you know. You can- you can trust me.”

Tweek had to suppress a sigh of relief. Despite his previous assertion of being a good deducer, Craig was wrong on two counts: Tweek was not being abused, and he certainly could not trust him. Tweek couldn’t trust anyone. “God, no! It’s nothing like that!” He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little too hysterical and shrill. He pulled himself together and continued, “No, that’s not it, don’t worry. I just happened to get lucky this one time.”

Craig nodded slowly, carefully. “Well,” he said, “Well, I’m glad, then.”

“You’re glad I got punched?” Tweek feigned offense, and he seemed to have caught him off guard, because Craig actually looked a little embarrassed.

“No! I- No, that’s- that’s not what I meant, I- I just-”

“Relax,” Tweek offered him a cautious smile, “I’m kidding. I know what you meant.” He had the upper hand now, he could feel it, and so he went on. “Look, Craig, what I told you - it is the truth. I wish I had some cool story about getting into some impressive tussle with a guy who’s ass I totally kicked, but the honest-to-God truth is I’m just an easy target.” He gestured to his scrawny physique and his underwhelming height. “Cartman could tell I’m easy to pick on just by lookin’ at me, same as anyone else could.”

Craig gazed at Tweek with an unreadable expression. His ice blue eyes slowly looked him up and down, drinking him in, and Tweek grew more and more uncomfortable with every second that he did so. He went back to fidgeting with the tablecloth, picking at a fraying edge. Eventually, Craig said, “Alright, cool it with the pity party.”

“Excuse me?” Tweek spluttered. Okay, so maybe he didn’t have the upper hand.

But Craig didn’t seem to be intending to insult him. He shifted in his seat and lent forward, expression serious. “Look, Tweek. I still don’t believe you.”

“Wh-”

He didn’t even let him get a word in edgewise. “I know it ain’t the truth, and I know you’re hiding something. But, that’s okay.”

Tweek, who was about to jump to his own defense again, was thrown. He blinked. “It… it is?”

“Sure,” he leant back, with all the confidence in the world, “I’ll find out eventually. I always do. I’m sure you’ll tell me soon enough.”

Tweek didn’t know what to say to this. His mouth gaped open and closed without a sound, like a guppy. “I-I-I will?”

Craig just nodded, as if it was as simple as that. “When you’re ready.” He finished his drink in one swig.

Tweek finished his own, quicker. Right now he felt like he could really do with it, even if it was shitty. He checked his watch: 0017. He decided he’d stick around exactly thirteen minutes more, then leave. Couldn’t run away now with his tail between his legs, it would be too suspicious, and Tweek always liked to time himself to round numbers, a habit he’d retained from his army days. As well as this, though he was reluctant to admit it, it was actually kind of nice to be out of his apartment. Well, nice, and also stressful as all hell. 

Tweek didn’t leave the safe confignments of his room all too often. He would go through periods of locking himself away, not emerging for months on end, and if it weren’t for Wendy, who checked up on him and brought him groceries, he’d have wasted away by now. Even just thinking about how he felt during those times made his stomach curdle, but he tried to let it go. Lately, things had been better for him. He’d been venturing out, even if it was just to the store for a little food. He’d started to look for work again, too, other than doing this job for Stan. He had an audition tomorrow for a new show being put on at the South Park Theatre, and though he doubted he’d succeed, it was still something. The act of just trying was enough for him.

Okay, Tweek thought to himself, just thirteen minutes of silence to fill. He said the first thing that came to mind, which was what Craig had mentioned the last time they met. “You used to work in a mental institution, right?”

Craig sat up a little straighter. He nodded, almost wary.

“What was that like?”

Craig puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled, mulling it over. “Chaotic,” he said eventually, and then again, “Yeah, real chaotic.”

“In what way?”

“Think of it like this: you take all of society's most damaged, most scarred, most twisted and afraid individuals,” Craig motioned with his hands as if he were manifesting them, “All in desperate need of help. And then you stick 'em all together,” he slammed his palms together violently, “fifteen beds a room, and lock ‘em up.”

Tweek raised his brows, “Jeez. Yeah, I can see how that might get out of hand.”

Craig nodded, “Yeah, and I was always in the thick of it.”

Tweek raised his eyebrows. “Troublemaker, were you?”

Craig chuckled, “I was the security guard. I had to restrain the patients when things got a little too exciting.”

“Was it… was it dangerous?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, “Most of the folk in there were more of a risk to themselves then anyone else.” He paused, and rubbed his jaw subconsciously, before adding, “Though I did get a few fists hurled my way every now and again. You’d be shocked how good their aim was.” He smirked a little at the memory, “Certainly took me by surprise, first time it happened. Young girl, barely sixteen. Boy, she knew how to throw a punch.”

The image of Craig getting socked by a little girl was one that Tweek found hard to believe. “Why’d she do it?”

“Well, wouldn’t you fight back if someone was trying to stick a needle in your ass?”

He’d not considered this. “Yeah, guess I would.”

“That’s what most of them thought they were doing, I think, when they started getting violent: Just trying to protect themselves.” His face darkened, “Lotta the staff weren’t as gentle as they could have been. Should have been.”

Tweek tried to imagine what it would be like to work a job like that. “Must have been stressful,” he murmured, twitching slightly.

“Yeah,” Craig nodded, “That above all else. The things you’d see in there - well, it’s not the sort of thing you can just hang up with your hat when you get home.” His face took on a bitter expression, but then he blinked, a little too quickly, and his eyes focused again. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said to Tweek, “Not all of them were raving, screaming loonies. In fact, a lot of them were just sort of… sad. Quiet. Some of them were real charming, too. Half the time, you wouldn’t even know why they were there.”

“Did you get a lot of chances to talk to them?”

“I mean, I wasn’t supposed to,” Craig said, “I was s’posed to just stand there, looking all tough and intimidating.” He put on a severe, threatening mask, “Be all ‘don’t get any ideas or nothin’, you know.” The fasade fell, and Craig leant back in his chair. “But, when someone’s bawling their eyes out in front of you, it get’s pretty damn hard to ignore. Once you’ve talked with them when they’re out of their mind, chatting when they have their periods of clarity becomes much more appealing. Little conversations, you know, ask them how their day was going. Mostly, I’d just listen to whatever was on their mind.”

“Oh,” Tweek said. He pictured Craig leaning against a ward door frame, listening intently in his stoic, silent, but sincere way. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”

Craig rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, “Well, it beat standing around in silence, didn’t it?”

“What sort of stuff did they talk about?”

“Well, there were quite a few old folk who’s minds had gone, and they’d tell me stories about when they were young. There was a man who’d always ask after who won the soccer matches that week, and a girl who’d always bitch to me about the person in the bed next to her, who wouldn’t stop singing.”

“Oh,” Tweek said, and then again, “Oh.”

“Boy, I bet you were expecting something a lot more weird than that?”

“Yeah, kinda. It almost sounds… normal. Well, not fully, but close to it.”

“Yeah, some of it was. Mind you, some of it was far from it.” He leant his elbows on the table, shifting his weight forward, closer to Tweek. “There was this one guy, real talkative fella, who’d come out with the strangest things. Strike up conversations about the men on the moon and the fairies in his food - oh, and every single day, without fail, he’d ask me for spiderwebs.”

“Spiderwebs?”

“Yeah,” Craig nodded, “Spiderwebs. I’d come in, each day, and he’d always greet me the same. ‘Ah, good morning, Mr Tucker,’ he’d say, and he’d shake my hand, like I was his new employee. ‘Got any spiderwebs?’”

“And did you?” Tweek asked, and he was almost kind of disappointed when Craig shook his head.

“Well how was I supposed to transfer one of those all the way into the hospital?” he shrugged.

Tweek considered this seriously. “You take two sticks,” he instructed, “And pick it up, one each side. You’d have to be careful of the direction of the wind, and-” he stopped. “Oh. That was rhetorical, wasn’t it?”

The corner of Craig’s mouth quirked into an almost-but-not-quite smile. “Maybe you’d have done a better job there than me,” he said, “You seem to know your stuff.”

“Hmm,” Tweek said dubiously, “If I ever end up in one of those places, I don’t think it’ll be cause I’ve been employed.” Craig chuckled, though Tweek hadn’t meant it as a joke.

“So, what do you do, then?” Craig asked, and then snapped his fingers, “No, wait, you’re an actor, aren’t you?”

Tweek nodded, and it actually made him feel kind of special that Craig had remembered. Which then made him feel stupid, for feeling special. Craig probably just had a good memory, that’s all. And he was used to listening to the ravings of madmen, right? Tweek probably seemed like only a hop, skip and a jump away from one of them. He twitched self consciously.

“You been in anything I would have seen?” Craig asked.

“I dunno,” Tweek said, and then he smiled a little, “How involved are you in the South Park theatre scene?”

“Not a whole lot,” Craig admitted, which was a surprise to neither of them. “I’ve not been to a play since high school.”

“Really?” Tweek asked, “What was it? The last one you saw, I mean?”

“It was a school production of Romeo and Juliet,” Craig pulled a face, “It was awful. I remember Romeo kept forgetting his lines, and making ‘em up, and Juliet got more and more pissed off at him. I reckon at the end she wasn’t too disappointed to find out that he was dead, cause it meant he’d finally shut up.”

Tweek chuckled, “I bet that made for a unique viewing experience.”

“Sure did,” Craig shook his head, “Still can’t believe I paid money to see that thing. That’s gotta be one of the worst ways to blow twenty cents, but there wasn’t much else to do on a Wednesday night in Denver in those days. God, high school was the worst.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be ‘the best days of our lives’?” Tweek reminded him.

“Bullshit,” Craig snorted, “Whoever told you that was probably trying to sell you something.”

“I don’t know,” Tweek said, “Don’t you miss it? Just a little bit?” Tweek himself did. He missed it a lot, even if he hadn’t enjoyed it at the time. Though he felt no connection to the boy he once was, the bittersweet nostalgia was enough to make him yearn for those days again. “Things were so much more simpler back then.”

“Sure, simple maybe, but simple’s not good. Simple’s suffocating.” Craig paused, then added, “Not that working at the institution was particularly liberating. Come to think of it, neither’s being a cop.” His brow furrowed, and he ran his finger around the edge of his glass uneasily.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about either,” Tweek observed.

“That’s cause I’m not,” Craig shrugged. “But it pays the bills, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Tweek said, “But there are plenty of better ways to pay ‘em.”

“Maybe,” Craig sighed, “But ever since I can remember, everyone’s always been just a little bit afraid of me. I’m… naturally imposing. Might as well get paid for being so, right?”

“Yeah,” Tweek said, “Yeah, I guess so. You’ve certainly got a knack for it.”

Craig laughed, “Thanks. I’ve really fine-tuned my talent over the years. The secret’s all in the posture and the jaw.”

“Sure,” Tweek agreed, “Shoulders back, chest out, full height. Set your jaw, never be the first to break eye contact, that sort of thing.”

Craig looked a little surprised. He raised an eyebrow, “Yeah - yeah, actually, that’s a lot of it.” He squinted at Tweek - small, scrawny, Tweek, who looked like he was one gust of wind away from snapping in two. “How’d you guess?”

Tweek grinned. “I’m an actor. I gotta pay close attention to how to be something I’m not.”

The conversation moved on. Since Craig had let go of the whole black eye thing, he was surprisingly easy to talk to. Sure, there wasn’t a lot of depth to their discussions, but that was okay. Tweek didn’t want that, anyway. They ordered another round of terrible drinks and finished them quicker than they had the last. Craig told him about what it was like growing up in Denver, and Tweek told him about what it was like being stuck in South Park for the first eighteen years of your life (hell). Every now and again, Tweek would stop mid sentence, feeling that what he was saying was probably incredibly uninteresting, but Craig never seemed to think so. He just kept on listening, in that serious sort of way. Tweek realised, to his surprise, that he was actually kind of enjoying himself.

Craig called Heidi over, and they ordered a third round of shitty drinks, which they finished quicker than the last two combined. “Oh, I never asked,” Craig sat as he set his glass back down on the table, “What show are you doing at the moment?”

“I’m… in between jobs,” Tweek said carefully. He was not about to admit that it had been almost six months without work. “But, I’ve got an audition. It’s tomorrow morn-” He stopped. 

Shit. 

He pulled back his sleeve and hastily checked his watch, and as he did so, his blood ran cold. 0146. That was a hell of a lot longer than thirteen minutes. “Oh fuck,” he drew in a sharp, ragged breath. 

This wasn’t like him. Tweek always kept a close watch of the time, all the time, because it was important. If he didn’t, he knew something bad would happen. So why had he lost track now? He’d let his guard down, got distracted, that’s what. Idiot. Idiot! That kind of carelessness was dangerous. This was bad, that was very, very bad. A sickening sensation setted in his stomach like an old pal. His mouth began to pool with hot saliva. How could he have been so oblivious? What if something had happened? It could have, and all because he’d not been keeping track. 

As he spiraled, the room seemed to grow ten times louder, ten times more packed. The air thinned. Tweek swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat. “Actually, I should really get going,” he said, voice tight.

His mood shift did not go unobserved. “You good?” Craig asked warily.

“Yeah!” Tweek forced a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. How did Craig do that? Figure him out so instantly? It was unnerving, but Tweek’s nerves weren’t in good condition anyway. 

“You sure?” Craig was not convinced.

“I’m fine,” Tweek said, clenching his jaw hard enough to make his molars ache. “I just meant to leave a little earlier, that’s all.” He looked at his watch again, as if he could make up for lost time just by staring at it. His heart was beating so loudly and so quickly that he worried others would start to hear it too.

Craig stood, rooted around in his wallet, and slipped some cash under his empty glass. “I’ll drive you home,” he said. 

“It’s alright,” Tweek said too quickly, “I don’t live too far from here.” His ticks were picking up, most noticeably the twitch in his left eye, the way it always went when he started to panic. He willed it to stop. It did not.

“It’s late,” Craig knit his brows, “You don’t wanna be wandering the streets by yourself at this hour.”

“I’d don’t- I don’t want to be a burden, I’m sure it’s out of your way!”

“Well, that depends on where you live.”

“2585 Lourdale Way,” Tweek blurted out without wanting to.

Craig’s eyebrows shot off his head. “That’s not ‘not too far from here.’ That’s very much ‘too far from here’, actually.”

“But I don’t mind-”

“I’m driving you,” Craig said, with such force that Tweek shrank back a little.

“Okay!” he squeaked, then cleared his throat and brought his voice back down the octave it had climbed. “Okay, yeah, sure.”

Craig was looking at him with an expression that proved that Tweek’s charade of level headedness was not fooling him one bit. 

“I’m totally f-fine,” Tweek muttered again, but by this point he couldn’t even convince himself.

“Let’s dust.” Craig strode with purpose. Posture and jaw. The crowd parted to make way for him, and Tweek trailed in his wake. They made it out in record time.

Craig’s car wasn’t parked too far away, and the moment Tweek made it into the passenger seat, he pulled back his sleeve and fixed his eyes on his watch, and couldn’t tear them away. “Just keeping an eye on the time,” he mumbled to Craig as he started the engine, as if it was a completely normal thing to stare desperately at your wrist for this long.

Craig nodded, as if it was indeed normal to do so. 

For a beat, neither said anything. The only sound was the low hum of the engine, and Tweek hyperventilating. His shoulders shook like the rattle of machine guns.

“Try to breathe a little slower,” Craig said calmly. 

“I- I can’t,” Tweek panted, “I can’t!” He balled a patch of his hair in his fist and tugged at it, hard, over and over again.

“Sure you can,” Craig’s voice was level and measured. He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Why don’t you time your breaths to your watch?”

“Ho- how do you- you mean?” Tweek could feel his focus fading with the color from his face. He struggled to stay in the present.

Craig pulled over. “Alright, here’s what you do,” he said. “For four beats - that’s four ticks of the second hand - breath in. Then, for four beats, breath out.” He moved in his seat so he could get a better view of Tweek’s watch. “Here, I’ll count for you.” He waited a moment, until the longer hand made it back to 12, then began his count. “One, two, three, four - one, two, three, four…”

It took Tweek a few tries to match his pace to Craig’s steady metronome, but he got it eventually. After a while, Craig stopped counting, and started the driving again, but Tweek kept it up. By the time they arrived at Tweek’s apartment, he’d calmed down enough to not need to count the seconds anymore.

Craig stopped the car, but his passenger didn’t move to get out. The two men sat there in silence, until eventually Tweek spoke.

“Sorry,” he said in a horse voice. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He stared into his lap meekly, he couldn’t meet Craig’s eyes. He was so ashamed. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

“God, Tweek,” Craig said gently, so, so gently, “You don’t have to apologize.”

Tweek didn’t know what else to say, so for a beat, he didn’t say anything at all. Eventually, he said, “Well, thanks, then.”

Craig nodded curtly, as if all he’d done was lend him a lighter. “Anytime.”

“I should get going,” Tweek said, gathering enough strength to move. He got out of the car, but before he shut the door, he poked his head back in. “So, um… same time next week?”

Craig’s smile was so slight that if Tweek had blinked, he’d have missed it. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, I’d like that.” He paused, then added, “We can go somewhere different next time, if that’s better.”

Tweek shrugged, “No, I don’t mind. It’s fine, now I know the place well enough.”

“Great,” Craig said. 

“Great,” Tweek echoed.

“I’ll try not to be late next time,” Craig winked, which made Tweek’s heart skip a beat or two.

Not that that meant anything. Tweek’s heart skipped beats all the time. It was a very jittery organ of his. “You’d better not be,” he snapped, and shut the door. He stepped back onto the pavement as Craig reversed out of the spot he’d pulled into.

He wound down his window, just before he drove away. “Good luck with your audition,” he said, and Tweek could tell he really meant it. But before he could say anything in response, Craig was gone. He left nothing in his wake but exhaust fumes, and a bedraggled, bewildered boy, grateful that there was no one else around to see him blush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Brief reference to abuse; Reference to psychiatric wards; Panic attack;  
> \---
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! It's was a long one so it took me quite a while to edit haha. I'm going to be uploading every Saturday, so be sure to tune in next week :)
> 
> If you're interested in learning more about what it's like to work in a modern mental institution (though they're now known better as psychiatric wards), here's a link to a short video about it on YouTube: https://youtu.be/KVBL888qNhM
> 
> You can also find a full 45 minute documentary on this topic on BBC iPlayer, entitled "Stacy Dooley: On the Psyc ward" - https://bbc.in/2HzmN1S
> 
> As always, many thanks for your kudos and general support!  
> \- Fay


	3. Chapter 3

It was the kind of night where you'd be glad to have worn a sweater under your jacket, and mournful if you hadn’t. Kyle was unfortunate enough to be of the lucky variety who’d stuck on two, a green turtleneck under a brown knit jumper, but still had the internal temperature of a snowman. It was an unfortunate by-product of having a lack of meat on his bones (a fact of which his mother never ceased to remind him of) - Kyle felt the cold like a dead man feels nothing: unrelenting, eternal. Jack Frost plays mercilessly with his prey, and Kyle was no exception.

His frozen state was maintained by his icebox of a car. His gloved fingers that gripped the steering-wheel were painfully numb, to the point where he had to keep switching hands to blow on them, just to defrost the joints. Of course, this just had to be the one night that he forgot his hat, and he predicted that if things kept on the way they were going, his earlobes would start growing icicles. Not really his style. As he turned the corner off Dray Street onto Whitfield Brow, he wished, not for the first time, and certainly not the last, that his car heater did more than just make noise.

As he drew up to Stan's apartment, he could see the silhouette of his friend waiting on the sidewalk. He was pacing up and down between two lamp posts, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jacket. His head rose as the old Jalopy pulled in, and his smile at the sight of the ginger at the wheel was the warmest thing Kyle had seen all night.

“Hey,” he said as Kyle slowed to a stop and rolled down his window, “How you doing?” His cheeks were stained pink from the nips of the night air.

“Freezing,” Kyle said, “Fucking freezing.” He glanced at Stan’s attire and observed with horror at how little clothes he was wearing: his brown leather jacket hung open, cool and casual, and while the tan shirt underneath certainly suited him, clinging lazily to his surprisingly toned physique, it did not look like it would do much to fend off the weather. “Get in already,” Kyle said, “Or you’ll catch your death. Just looking at you is giving me shivers.”

Stan smirked, “Come on, it’s not that bad.” His words were clouds in the cold as he walked round the bonnet of the car to get in on the passenger side.

Kyle huffed. “Is too that bad,” he grumbled as he reversed back into the street. It was getting pretty late, so he had the luxury of being the only car on the road. “I think my fingers are gonna fall off from frostbite.”

“It’s like fifty degrees,” Stan rolled his eyes, “You’re just being dramatic.” 

Kyle eyed Stan suspiciously. “God, you’re one of those people who never feel the cold, aren’t you? I bet you could holiday in Alaska in just shorts and a t-shirt, and you’d still go looking for ice-cream.”

Stan laughed. “Maybe. Or - hear me out - you could just be being dramatic.”

Kyle sighed, “Sure. I guess I’m just not cut out for South Park winter weather.”

Stan glanced at a passing road sign outside the passenger window. “Do you know how to get to where we’re headed?” Stan asked, and Kyle nodded.

“Sure do. Had a nice little soiree with a street map yesterday.”

Stan frowned, “You didn’t have to do that. You know I could have just given you directions.”

Kyle had selected a route along the docs, thinking it would be quieter than taking any main roads, which in retrospect was an unnecessary compensation: at quarter to midnight on a Thursday, the streets were hardly teeming with life. The scenery wasn’t even an improvement: everything was all filthy concrete and rotting wood, eerily still. The only motion was the waves as they threw themselves at the peers, and the odd seagull which was up past its bedtime.

“I like to be prepared,” Kyle said quietly, not for lack of confidence, but because it was the sort of night where loud voices felt out of place. There was a silence, a comfortable one, as he drove, and Kyle knew this was his opportunity to bring up what he’d been fretting over all week. He didn’t want to, though, so he allowed just a few beats more of that nice sort of quiet, before opening his mouth. “Stan, I’ve been thinking, and, well, I- I had a thought.”

“Did it hurt?” Stan grinned. “You should take some aspirin, lie down, I’m sure it’ll go away.”

Kyle smiled slightly, “That never seems to work for me. No matter how hard I try, they just keep coming back.” He allowed just a moment more of mirth, before steering the conversation back on track. “Stan, legallyI shouldn’t be telling you this but… well, I’m almost positive Cartman killed Pip Pirrup.”

Stan’s face fell. His dark brows drew together like a pair of curtains. “But didn’t you-”

“I worked for his defense attorney, yes, and he was ruled not guilty, but… well, it was the sort of thing I had to be paid to believe. In the short time I worked with the Chief, I got the general impression that Cartman was- well, he didn’t seem the sort to hold back, to keep his safety catch on. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something about him. His eyes, I think. They’re so… dead. So flat. Looking into them, it makes you realise, those aren’t the eyes of someone who’d hesitate to pull the trigger on someone who was getting in his way.”

Stan’s tongue ran its way around his teeth as he thought, as if exploring the taste of what Kyle had said. Sour, bitter, no doubt. Eventually, he murmured, “Well, I can believe that.”

The tension in Kyle’s muscles relaxed just a little, as much as they could when stiffened by the cold. When he’d rehearsed this conversation in his head, he’d been worried that Stan might flat-out refuse, taking the court’s ruling over Kyle’s. In hindsight, however, Kyle realised that would never have happened. Stan was the kind of guy with a healthy distrust for the justice system. “So,” Kyle continued, “I got thinking about why Cartman would do such a thing. What could have provoked him. And, I was thinking about what we’re doing now, and how the two things might be connected.”

“Connected?” Stan asked warily. He lent on the armrest and turned to glare out the window, as if checking for any eavesdroppers running alongside the car as it trundled down the street.

“Yeah,” Kyle nodded, “Connected. Stan, what if we’re not the first people to be hired to take Cartman down?”

Stan glanced at him from the corner of his eye without moving his head. He said nothing, so Kyle carried on, gaining speed.

“Think about it: the guy’s been on the force for almost a decade,” he said, “And arresting innocents isn’t a shiny new hobby of his: he’s been doing that from day one. Do you really think Token’s the first to want something done about him? In all that time, do you really think no one decided enough was enough?”

Kyle could practically hear the cogs clanking in Stan’s brain as he clocked where this was going. “You reckon someone’s been here before,” Stan said suspiciously, “You reckon that ‘someone’ was Pip Pirrup.”

“I do,” Kyle said, “I reckon that’s exactly what happened. Pirrup was investigating the array of Cartman’s crimes against humanity, but the cop found out, and had him… dealt with. It was Pip or his job, and for Cartman, that’s no contest.”

“That could be true,” Stan admitted, “That could be the case.” He had turned to look at him now, eyes boring into Kyle’s profile like he was an open book.

“So then that got me thinking about our little photoshoot we’re on our way to.”

“Hang on, can we go back to-”

“Just bare with me here,” Kyle said, and Stan bowed his head in concession. “So, our plan is to use the pictures of Butters and Cartman as blackmail, right? Make him resign, or else they might just get digested by the sort of greedy eyes he’s hoping to avoid.”

Stan nodded.

“But by doing so, wouldn’t that be just putting ourselves in danger?” Kyle said, and the prospect made his voice jump half an octave and his tongue pick up pace. “Even if we didn’t reveal who we were when we were blackmailing him, there’s still a chance he could figure it out. I’m not exactly his all time favourite best buddy, and it’s likely he could put two and two together about my reclaiming of the file the other day. And if he did… Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much of an appetite for lead.”

Stan sucked in air through his teeth, making a low whistling sound that pierced the air like a needle. He didn’t agree. He didn’t disagree. He simply said, “So what do you suggest?”

“Either way our photos would make him get sacked, right? Why don’t we just skip right past the threats and take them to the press? They’ll have a field day and he’ll be forced to take a permanent vacation. Our job’s done, and no one need know we were the source of the incriminating evidence.”

Stan frowned. “Who’s to say that’s any safer? Cartman’s got most of the goddamned city under his thumb, and that includes the media. There’s no way of knowing they wouldn’t just suppress the story, and pass our contact details along to the Chief with our kindest regards.”

“Right,” Kyle nodded, “I thought about that too.”

“You sure do think a lot, don’t you?” Stan’s smile pinched the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

“It’s a nasty habit, I know. I’m trying to shake it, but what can I say?” Kyle shrugged, “I’m an addict.” He tried to keep a straight face but his eyes still crinkled up. “Anyway, you are right to be wary. We don’t know who to trust in this city, especially for a job like this. Sticky situation.”

Stan squinted at him, “But I bet you thought of a handy little solution, didn’t you?”

Kyle nodded. “See, we have a certain special contact we can call on, don’t we?” He paused, then added, “Well, you do, anyway.”

Stan tilted his head, “What do you-” He stopped. It clicked like a joint slotting back into place, sharp and painful. “No,” he said firmly, and a shadow seemed to pass over his face like a stormcloud. “Absolutely not.”

“Think about it, Stan,” Kyle persuaded. “It’s the only way, the only safe way we can do our jobs without risking our lives.”

“My job,” Stan snapped, “In case you’ve forgotten, Kyle, this is my job, not ‘ours’. Just because you’re along for the ride doesn’t mean you get to call the shots.”

Kyle actually gawked at him, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Stan was not.

“Stan, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know that Cartman’s fucking queer in the first place. I’ve done just as much for this case as you have. Doesn’t matter if I’m getting paid or not, we’re in this together.”

Stan sat stiffly back in his seat as if it had already been decided. “There is nothing you can say or do to convince me to go crawling back to Wendy Testaburger to get her to publish the photos.”

Kyle didn’t know what to say. He’d thought the hardest part would be in convincing Stan of Pip’s true end, not of what they should do next. So, he said the only thing he could think of. “Please?” The word puffed out into the air like cigarette smoke. 

Stan peered at Kyle to see if he was actually serious. He was. Stan shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe the audacity of his companion. 

“Come on,” Kyle persisted, “She’s our best option, you know it as well as I do.”

“Like hell I do. I-”

“We have to talk to her.” Kyle’s words were uttered with resolute determination, unstoppable force meeting immovable object. Stan stared at him for a very long time without speaking. Kyle could feel the white hot burn of his gaze upon him. It toasted his cheeks red. 

“Please?” his voice was barely a whisper, and somehow that was what it took to collapse the stony brick wall Stan had constructed as his expression.

His shoulders slumped and he looked almost in pain. He sighed and massaged his temples. “I don’t- I can’t- Kyle, there’s no reason to believe she’d even be willing to work with me- with us. We didn’t end things on good terms. She’d just send us right back out of her office with our tails between our legs.”

Kyle shook his head, “No, there’s no way she’d do that, man.”

Stan was still testy. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you and Wendy were so close,” he barked, “You seem to know her so well, far better than me.”

Kyle didn’t take the bait. “I’m not claiming to know her, but Stan, I saw the way she looked at you in Tweek’s apartment. She’s still smitten with you, even if you hate to admit it.”

Stan chuckled, but it was hollow and humourless. “I don’t know what she sees in me.”

“I do,” Kyle said without thinking. His regret was immediate and imminent, ignited by the quirk of Stan’s eyebrow and the funny look he cast him. Kyle moved on quickly, “Look, it would be insane not to use her to your advantage.”

“Use?” Stan’s voice was dripping with judgemental distaste. “Christ, I didn’t peg you as a womanizer, Kyle.”

“I’m not!” Kyle protested desperately.

“Look, if you think I’m gonna seduce our way into finishing this case then you’ve got another think coming.”

Kyle’s eyes grew wide, “I’m not suggesting anything- uh, anything crass. Strictly professional! Just a… favour for an old friend.” Stan’s skepticism did not clear up, so he fumbled on. “Look, it’d be beneficial on her part, too. Being the journalist to finally put an end to Cartman’s reign of terror once and for all? She’d cause quite a stir. Folk everywhere would be talking about her, she could make it big.”

Stan’s brow lowered. “Is that supposed to impress me? That she’d get all the credit for our dirty work?”

“No, I just thought-” 

His scowl deepened. “You oughta quit your damned thinking, it’s getting you nowhere.”

“But-”

“Kyle, the answer is no.” Stan put his foot down, and it was immovable.

Kyle knew he’d hit a dead end. He decided to retreat for the time being. “Look, just… think it over, okay? We don’t have to decide right away.”

Stan muttered something about there having been far too much thinking done already, but Kyle ignored this. He was banking on the fact that Stan’s drive to be a good P.I. would eventually triumph over his stubborn disposition, a gamble in which his odds were not favourable.

The rest of the car journey was peppered with small talk, which Kyle kept up just to clear the air, and to keep his blood moving, so it didn’t freeze over in his veins. By the time they reached their destination, Stan had cooled down to a low simmer, at least on the outside, which he was glad of. Being stuck in a car with a seething Stan was a scary scenario. Kyle turned off the car and checked his watch. They were a few minutes early. The motel parking lot in which they were situated was populated by a few rusty looking cars, but no Butters and no Kenny. They would just have to wait.

With the engine powered down, Kyle’s only source of heat melted away, and the cold dug its claws deeper into his back and sliced up his spine. Soon enough, he was slipping back into the shivers he had been tormented by earlier.

Stan glanced over to him, and noticed Kyle’s shaking shoulders. “Jeez, you weren’t kidding about being cold, huh?”

“I’m f-fuh-fine,” Kyle said through chattering teeth, feeling ridiculous in comparison to the unaffected Stan. “L-luh-like you said, just being dramatic.”

Stan’s brow furrowed with concern. “I don’t want you catching a cold just because we’re camped out taking some dumb photos.”

“Really, I’m fine!” Kyle did his best to steady his shivering and offered him a weak smile. At least the heat of his embarrassment was some sort of warmth.

“Well, here,” Stan dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a blue beanie with a red bobble. He leant over, and Kyle’s breath caught in his throat as Stan carefully put it on his head. Ginger curls still stuck up the front, impossible to tame. Stan’s hand brushed the back of his neck as he adjusted the hat, sending shivers down his spine. “There you go,” Stan sat back, “That oughtta warm you up.”

“Um… thanks. Thank you.” Kyle prayed it was too dark for Stan to see how red his cheeks were turning. He might have been forced to say something else, no doubt clumsy and awkward, but he was mercifully saved by a sharp knocking on the window. He flinched, and turned to see the round, smiling face Butters, Kenny loitering just a few steps behind. Kyle nodded in greeting and unlocked the car.

Butters got in the back first, followed by Kenny. He had his parka hood pulled up tight, shielding most of his face from the weather, though tufts of blond still escaped over his forehead. “Jesus, it’s fucking freezing tonight,” he said, voice low.

“It’s not that bad,” Butters chided, and though he matched his volume, his southern drawl was as thick and tangy as ever.

“Your opinion doesn’t count,” Kenny dismissed with a shrug, “You’re never cold. I could push you into a mountain of snow and it’d all turn to steam.”

The parallel of this exchange was not lost on Kyle, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. He occupied himself by taking in the sights.

There were no stars in the sky that night. The only light was from the motel sign, the one lamp post that skulked across the street, and the flickering flame of Stan’s lighter as he lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and closed his eyes, before winding down the window and allowing smoke to curl from his lips and out into the crisp dark air.

“Well, here we all are,” he said quietly. “Ready for try two?” He offered his pack to his passengers.

Kenny lent forward and took two, along with the lighter. He handed one to Butters and muttered, “No, not really.”

“Hey, it’s not you who’s gotta be ready, it’s me,” Butters reminded him, taking the cigarette. He felt ready. Mostly. 

“Well, let’s not waste any time,” Stan said. “Cartman should be coming down this way in about ten minutes. You know the plan?”

“Yeah, I know it.” It wasn’t much different from the time before, just a few adjustments here and there. Butters would solicit Cartman as he was on his way home from a late shift, one they knew he was just finishing up, thanks to the schedule Kyle stole. They’d slip into the motel, Butters would work his magic, and they’d get the pictures they were after. In and out. Smooth and easy. Hopefully. 

“Alrighty then,” Butters said, “Well, I’ll get to it.” 

“Be careful,” Kenny said, as if he needed reminding. “Be safe.” His voice was tight.

“I will,” Butters felt for his hand in the dark and squeezed it. “I’ll be back before you know it, don’t you worry.”

“You’d better be,” Kenny said, and he sounded like he wanted to say more, but Stan and Kyle were there, so he didn’t.

Butters got out of the car. He shut the door as softly as he could, then realised he’d forgot to light his cigarette, so tapped on the window. Kenny shifted over and cranked it down. “Forgot a light,” Butters whispered, sticking his head back inside, unlit cigarette between his lips.

Kenny took the cigarette, but his hand moved not to the lighter but to Butter’s face. He cupped it in his palm, and leant in. Kenny kissed hard and desperate, like a man on death row. The two moved as one, heads bobbing between the divide. They did not break until Stan tutted at them.

“I’m not paying you to stand around kissing Kenny, Butters,” he grumbled.

Butters stumbled back a step, breathless. Kenny hadn’t kissed him like that since… well, not for a good long while. It felt good. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Already his mind was wandering to later that night, when they could finally be alone. 

“Little incentive to stay alive,” Kenny winked, lighting the cigarette and handing it back.

“Yes, sir,” Butters panted. “See you after the show.” He crossed the street to the lonely lamppost and leant against it. He eyed the empty road, waiting for the plain brown car he knew was only minutes away. 

Finally, it came. 

Butters took the last deep pull on his cigarette, then dropped it, putting it out with the heel of his shoe. Showtime, baby. He took a step to the edge of the pavement, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a high wolf whistle.

The car slowed, and pulled over.

“Well, hey there fella,” Butters simpered. “You lookin’ for a good time?”

The window was rolled down, and sure enough, there was Cartman.

Butters caught sight of his distinctive police uniform. His doe eyes grew two sizes and he stepped back, putting his hands up. “Oh, I-I-I’m so sorry, sir,” he stuttered hastily, “I didn’t know-”

“No, you didn’t,” a sly smile slithered across Cartman’s face. “And you oughtn’t to, either.”

“I don’t want no trouble! I didn’t mean no harm!” Butters’s voice rose, high and shaky, “Please, sir, don’t-” His voice cracked and caught in his throat. 

Cartman looked Butters like he was nailed to a wall at a gallery. His eyes narrowed, “Say, aren’t you one a’ Garrison’s bitches?”

Shit. That was not part of the plan. Cartman wasn’t supposed to recognise him. Butters swallowed and nodded. “Y-yeah, I was,” he said hesitantly, before adding “But he wudn’t treating me too well, so I left.”

Cartman snorted. “Good for you. He's a dirty bastard.” He shifted his position and leant his elbow on the frame of the car window, just to get a better look at him. “So what you doin’ out on the street, then?”

“Gotta get by somehow,” Butters mumbled, staring meekly at the gutter. “I got nowhere else to go.”

Cartman practically leered at him. “Nowhere? Nowhere at all?”

“Well, I got a motel room,” Butters whined, “But there’s no use staying in there all by myself.” 

“All alone, nowhere to go, no one to turn to,” Cartman sounded like he was reading off a menu at a five-star restaurant. “And then you try and solicit a cop? Not such a good idea, you know.”

Butters nibbled at his thumbnail. “Are- are you gonna arrest me, sir?”

“I dunno,” Cartman said slowly, “I might.” He was enjoying this just a little too much, that much was obvious - a cat, tormenting its prey.

“There must be something I can do,” Butters said quickly, “Something I can do to convince you otherwise.”

Cartmain raised an eyebrow. “Why, what you got in mind?”

Butters played with the button on the bottom of his baby blue jacket. “Well, maybe I could do you a little favour,” he said. “Or maybe, I could do you a big one.” 

“Oh yeah?”

He bit his lip ever so slightly and looked up at the cop through lowered lashes. “You know, my motel room’s just across the street.” Slow. Sultry. Just how they like ‘em.

The pig eyed him greedily. “Sure,” he said leisurely, “I reckon maybe I could be convinced to forget this whole ordeal in return for that favour of yours.”

Bingo.

Butters shoulders relaxed. “Swell,” he said, “That’s just swell.”

Cartman’s grin was as wicked as his ways. “Isn’t it just.” He was about to keep driving, go park in the motel car park, but he hesitated. “Say, what was your name again?”

“Butters,” said Butters.

“Huh,” he raised his eyebrows, “Weird name.”

“Sure. You wanna know why they call me that?” Butters took a step into the street. His fingers curled over the car window frame and he leant in. He glided his mouth to the Police Chief’s ear, so close that Cartman could feel Butter’s warm breath brush the back of his neck with his next slow pur. “Cause I melt in the mouth.”

The cop stiffened. He stared at Butters, mouth hanging open, breathing just a little too heavy. He swallowed, hard. “I’ll see you inside.”

Butters pulled back, satisfied. “Room 23, ground floor.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

\---  
Kyle was watching like a hawk as Butters waited on that street corner for Cartman’s car to show. It did, and he observed the scene begin to unfold, without the luxury of being able to hear their conversation. He squinted out the window, trying to read Butter’s body language. It seemed very tense, but perhaps that was deliberate. “What do you think he’s saying?” he asked.

Kenny huffed from the back seat, “No prize for guessing.” He clutched his hands to his chest and put on an exaggerated southern slur, “Oh, please, sir, don’t arrest me, sir! I swear, I’ll do anything, anything you want! My motel’s just over there, sir, maybe I could take ya there, show ya a good time! Would ya like that sir? Would ya? Would ya?” He batted his eyelashes and fanned himself, and Kyle actually giggled a little, which made Stan cast him a judgemental side-eye.

“Keep it down,” the sleuth hissed, “I’ll not have you blow our cover just cause you can’t stand we’re redoing this, and that we decided Butters would be better at it than you.”

Kenny crossed his arms over his chest, irritated, “Yeah, I’m not entirely sure that’s how the conversation went down.”

“We wouldn’t even have to be redoing this at all if my photos of last time hadn’t gone missing,” Stan said, in equal irritation, “I still don’t understand-”

“Wait, shh- look!” Kyle interrupted sharply. “Butters is going closer to the car.”

Kenny peered over, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, I bet he’s using his ‘melt in the mouth’ line. What a fuckin’ cliche.” He leant back in his seat, ticked off by the very idea.

“Listen, Kenny,” Stan said curtly, “There are two people in this car who are immune to Butters’s charm, and you sure as hell aint either of em. So, shut the hell up.”

Kenny shut the hell up.

Kyle could tell that Kenny was only being this irritable because he was worried. Who wouldn’t be? If his lover was about to fuck Cartman, he’d be pretty concerned too. Not that Kyle would ever have a lover like Kenny’s, obviously. 

Kyle was slowly adjusting to getting his head around the two men’s relationship. Before Cartman, he’d never met any homosexuals before, and even then, it’s not as if the chief was an out-and-proud fairy. But, Kenny and Butters seemed so different from how he’d expected queers to be, especially ones who were both whores. They were just… kind of ordinary, actually. They bickered and they bantered like any normal couple did, but they seemed to really care for each other, too. Hell, Kyle had to admit their relationship seemed more stable than any he himself ever had, though perhaps that was more telling of his unfortunate history than theirs. Regardless, they just seemed so comfortable around each other. So at ease. It made Kyle feel so utterly, maddeningly jealous. But, it made him feel worse acknowledging that he felt that way, so he didn’t. He just put the flip of his stomach down to disgust about their relationship. After all, he reasoned, it was unnatural. No matter how naturally the pair seemed to fit together.

“Shit, here he comes,” Stan said. “Get down.” The car’s headlights swept the parking lot like big, unblinking eyes. Kyle took a few quick photos of Cartman’s car, and him emerging from it, before he joined the other two in a hunkerdown. They held their breath as they listened to the engine shutting down, and the slam of a car door. Heavy footsteps echoed out through the night as the Chief crossed the lot into the motel. Then, the slight creek of door, as it swung open and shut. 

The three released a collective sigh of relief. Kyle straightened and positioned his camera. The setup was much like before, though they were at a different motel this time: a room facing them, with the curtain cracked open just enough for them to get a good view. The room was small, and dank. The wallpaper was a yellowish colour, stained and streaked by damp mold and cigarette smoke. There was a double bed, the only piece of furniture, and the mattress looked as if someone had thrown a sheet over a pile of rusty springs. The dim light of a lone bare bulb seemed to only accentuate the rundown, filthy feeling of the place. Yeah, it was a real classy joint alright.

Kyle watched through his camera as Butter’s nimble fingers made light work of the buttons on Cartman’s shirt, and made lighter work of the button on his pants. 

“Well fuck me,” Kenny let out a low whistled, “This is a grim sight.” He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. “Gimme another.”

“Already?” Stan’s concern was more over his supply than Kenny’s habits.

“Yeah, already. Gimme another.”

Reluctantly, Stan held out his pack.

Kenny stared at it for a long second and then said, “Actually, you got anything stronger?”

“I don’t got any fuckin’ crack, if that’s what you’re after.”

Kenny snorted at the suggestion. “I mean booze, asshole. Not all whores smoke crack, you know.” He still took the cigarette, lit it and took a long, deep puff.

“Oh. Sure, yeah.” Stan pulled out a silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket, took a gulp himself, then handed it to Kenny. 

Kenny took a draught and pulled a face. “Man, that’s strong stuff.”

“Yeah, this means I get to file it under ‘business expenses’, too,” Stan said as he took it back. “Want some?” He offered it to Kyle.

Kyle said nothing. He did not move. He did not remove his eye from his camera. He was suspended, frozen by the scene playing out before him.

“Suit yourself,” Stan took his silence as a no and shrugged, allowing himself another swig on behalf of him. “You got a good enough shot?” he asked.

“Uh huh,” Kyle said dubiously. “Very… clear.” He took photo after photo of the two men stripping, kissing, beginning to intertwine. His stomach curdled as things progressed. It was wrong. It was unnatural. It was abominable.

So why couldn’t he look away? And why the fuck was he hard right now?

Kenny lay lazily on the back seat, long legs bent to fit, staring at the car ceiling. “Jeez, you’d think Cartman would be quicker than this. Credit where credit’s due, I guess.”

Stan snorted, “I don’t think there’s anything about this situation that warrants respect for anyone.” He glanced at his friend in the driver's seat and noticed how his camera remained glued to his eye. “Ain’t you got enough pictures yet? Don’t go wasting film.”

“Cut the kid some slack, Stan,” Kenny extended his legs until they touched the ceiling, just to see if he could. He grinned devilishly, “It’s baby’s first time seein’ queers be queer. Ain’t no harm in innocent curiosity.”

Kyle removed his camera, if only to prove him wrong. He placed it strategically on his lap. “I’m not interested in this foul shit,” he snapped, twisting round to address Kenny, “So just what are you implying?”

“I’m not implying nothing,” Kenny put his hands up innocently. “Nothing at all!” He was still grinning. Lying down with his hood up had meant that his blond hair had flopped further over his eyes. He pushed it away from his face, so that it stuck up.

“Sure didn’t sound like that,” Kyle said bitterly, settling back in his seat. “Sounded an awful lot like you meant something by it.”

Kenny realised with glee that he’d come across a particularly sensitive area, a pressure point. He pushed harder. “Look, I just think it’s kind of funny that you’re paying such close attention, that’s all.”

Kyle’s flush flared with his anger. “Not out of choice, asshole!” he spat. “As if any guy would willingly watch that vile shitshow.” He paused, then added meaningfully, “Well, any decent guy, that is.”

Kenny whistled, “Now who’s the one implying things?” 

It took all of Kyle’s willpower to hold back the expletives that were foaming at his mouth. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles bleached white beneath his gloves. “Look,” he said in a low growl, “I just wanna make sure we’ve got enough photos, in case we lose any like last time.”

“You gonna sell ‘em as souvenirs?” Kenny was relentless. “Twenty cents for a postcard, forty for a magnet. You’d turn a healthy profit, I reckon.”

“That’s sick,” Kyle said disgustedly, “You’re real sick, you know that?”

Kenny winked at him, “Sure do, sweetheart.” He sat up and his hood flopped back onto his shoulders. He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it up just right. “Anyway, can you blame a guy for asking?” he sounded nonchalant, but he still had not lost that shit eating grin of his. “I’m just wondering if I should start getting jealous, is all.”

Kyle slammed his palms on the steering wheel so violently that Stan, who was remaining a silent observer, flinched in the seat beside him. “How dare you?” he spat. “How dare you suggest that I- that I would-” he couldn’t even finish his sentence, he was so angry. His shoulders shook with bitter rage.

Kenny was over the moon. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he snickered.

Kyle saw red. He was about a quarter of a second from absolutely losing his shit, but Stan finally put a stop to his merciless tormentation.

“Quit it, Kenny,” he said, in a low warning tone. “You’re making me regret letting you come along.”

“I was just-”

“Quit. It.” Stan was not fucking around.

For a brief second, no one moved. The only sound was Kyle’s shuddering breaths, which he fought to control. Then, after what was the longest six seconds anyone has ever had to suffer through, Kenny conceded.

He crossed his arms and pouted, “You’re no fun.” He flopped dramatically back down and stuck his legs in the air again. “You’re no fun at all.”

“So I’m told,” Stan said flatly, “They say I’ve got a chronic deficiency.” He glanced behind him, “And take your shoes off the ceiling. You’ll make it all muddy.”

“Christ, you’re not my dad,” Kenny grumbled, but he did it anyway.

“You’re damned lucky I’m not,” Stan smiled ever so slightly, “Or you’d be grounded for a mighty long time on account of your insolence.”

Kenny chuckled, “See, that’s how I know you’re not my dear ol’ pops. My dad would never come near enough to tell if I were misbehaving or not.”

This sentence hung in the air for a while like a bad smell.

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Stan asked eventually, and his voice was quiet, as if speaking too loudly might break something. Maybe Kenny.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, and his voice was as light as it was tight, “Must have made it to three years now.” He mimed waving a miniature flag, “Happy anniversary to me.”

This brief but unexpected conversation was enough of a curveball to jerk Kyle out of his enmity he was marinating in, at least for the most part. He picked over what Kenny had said like he was a mortician at a morgue. Since his own dad doubled as his boss, they saw each other from nine to five, five days a week (though Kyle had been more absent recently as he worked with Stan on the case). Sure, they had their spats, just like any father and son did, but they were also remarkably close. He couldn’t imagine going three years without talking to him. 

“Do you keep in contact with any of your family?” he asked, and his voice came out harsher than he’d meant it to, still fraught with the fury he was recovering from. He adjusted his tone, “Aside from your dad, I mean.”

“Nope,” Kenny said, popping the ‘P’. “Not him or Kevin since the war, and not Mom since she left when I was 12.”

“Oh,” Kyle said. What else could he?

“My sister still calls me every now and again, though.” Kenny smiled gently at the thought of her. “I tell her I’m working as a barman, but only ‘cause I know she’d worry about me if she knew the truth.” He paused, then added proudly, “She’s at medical school, you know, training to become a doctor. Always knew she’d be the one of us to make it.”

Kyle didn’t respond. Even though he hated Kenny, absolutely despised him, he still didn’t deserve to be cut off like that. Kyle felt he ought to know the right thing to say, to console him at least somewhat, but drew a blank. The car descended into a quiet that seemed to last a lifetime.

“Look,” Stan’s sudden words sliced the silence in twain. “Cartman’s coming back” He and Kyle quickly slouched down in their seats, and Kenny, though already on his back, pulled the strings of his parka hood so that it closed over his face in a gesture of solidarity.

Sure enough, there was the sound of the motel room door, swinging open and shut. Kyle counted the number of steps Cartman took across the lot, in an effort to keep his nerves down. Thirty-six. There was a wheezing, spluttering sound of a car being wrenched out of its sleep, and then the screech of tires as the Chief took off. It was all over.

The knock on the passenger window made Kyle jump. He looked over to see Butters waving from outside. Kyle flicked the unlock button and Butters opened the door.

He looked at Kenny’s enclosed head, lying on his seat. Butters hooked his fingers into the edges of the hood and pulled it open. “Well hi there,” he said gently. “You appear to have taken over my spot. Can I have it back?”

Kenny’s beam was brighter than the moon. He looked up at him, head appearing upside down from his perspective. “It’ll cost ya.”

Butters leant down obligingly and kissed him quickly.

“Cheapskate,” Kenny complained, but he vacated.

“You’ll get the rest later,” Butters murmured quietly, but Kyle still caught it, and Kenny bit back the reaction that bubbled from inside him. Butters slipped into the car and shut the door. “Well, I pulled it off without a hitch!” He addressed the rest of them. “I believe a little reward is in order.”

“You’re ‘little’ reward ain’t so little,” Stan said as he counted out the cash. He handed it over and Butters took it eagerly. 

He stared at it with big, shiny eyes. “Much obliged,” he said gratefully.

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” Kenny gleefully sang. “Fancy a drink, anyone?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stan sighed in relief.

This evening had been quite enough for Kyle, and the prospect of it dragging out any further was a sickening one. All he wanted was to be at home, in his warm bed, tucked up with a hot water bottle and a good book, slowly defrosting. He twisted the ignition key, and it took a few tries before the car managed to start, like a corpse dragging itself out of its grave for one last day on earth. He should probably get that checked out. “I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Kyle said, careful that his voice did not reveal the weight of the exhaustion he felt, “But, I’ll drive you fellas someplace.”

“Tiff’s ain't too far from here,” Butters suggested, “Kenny and I go there a lot, when we don’t feel like putting up with Skeeters. Do you know it?” 

Kyle did.

“Come on, Kyle!” Kenny encouraged as the car puffed along down the quiet city streets, “Come along, get pissed with us!”

Kyle just could not figure Kenny out. Who the hell was he to pull a stunt like he just had, accuse him of what he just had, only to turn around and ask him to join him at the bar? It made no sense, absolutely none. Nothing about that guy did, and that only made Kyle want to spend time with him less. “No,” he said. “No thanks.”

“You’ve got just as much to celebrate as we do,” Kenny said, his voice almost melodic.

Kyle was not completely sure he had. Kenny and Butters had come out of this ordeal with almost three hundred dollars. All he’d gained was a stomach that felt like it had been filled with cement. “I’m fine,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got work in the morning. If I go this long without pulling my weight in the firm, my dad might start asking questions.”

“That’s understandable,” Butters said before Kenny could answer, as if he could sense that he would just keep on pushing until he got his way otherwise. Hell, Kyle realised, Butters likely knew that was exactly what he’d do, since he spent enough time with the guy. Kyle could barely last ten minutes in a car with him, so he couldn’t imagine what it would actually be like to be in a relationship with Kenny. Well, he could imagine it, but he very quickly decided that it was a bad idea to do so.

The rest of the drive consisted of Butters recounting the evening’s events to them with just enough ambiguity to get away with it, but not quite enough that Kyle’s imagination couldn’t fill in the blanks. By the time they pulled up outside Tiff’s, the tips of Kyle’s ears had heated from peach to pink to red, before finally settling on a bright blushy scarlett. He ignored the burning, distracting himself instead with the removal of the roll of film from his camera.

“Thanks for the lift, Kyle!” Butters said brightly as he got out of the car.

“You sure you don’t wanna join us?” Stan asked, and he seemed like he genuinely wanted him there, of which Kyle was pleased. For a moment, he considered it.

“Yeah,” Kenny grinned. “I’ll introduce you to some of the other guys in there! I’m sure you’d get along great.”

Any interest was quickly quashed. Kyle’s jaw clenched. “I’m good,” he said awkwardly. He reached his hand up to run his fingers nervously through his hair, only to find Stan’s hat still there. He took it off, leaving his curly hair messy in its absence. “Here,” he held it out to him, along with the film, “Thanks for the loan.”

Stan took the film, but not the hat. “Keep it,” he shrugged. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Oh,” Kyle said, a little surprised. “Okay, thanks.”

“You coming, Kenny?” Butters reopened the door impatiently. 

“You bet,” Kenny said. He got out, but then poked his head back in, and added “It was nice getting to know you, Kyle!” He touched his shoulder, and Kyle flinched. At that, he was gone.

Stan rolled his eyes at Kenny as he skipped after Butters, like a schoolgirl who just got an A+. “Sorry about him. He seems to think everyone’s as insane as he is.” That was what Stan said: ‘insane’. He clearly meant something else by it, though, but that was something neither men were willing to label right now.

Kyle found a small smile and put it on, “It’s alright.” 

“I’ll get those photos developed tomorrow,” Stan said as he got out, “And call you sometime in the evening.” He paused, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’ll… I’ll think over what you said, about the press. About Wendy.”

“Alright,” Kyle nodded, inwardly celebrating this minor victory. “See you later.” Stan shut the door and Kyle started his drive home, grateful to finally be alone, but less so with his thoughts for company. He’d be replaying tonight’s events for weeks, he just knew it, and each time would get worse.

Stan watched quietly from the sidewalk as Kyle pulled away. Kenny and Butters lingered behind him.

“Nice kid,” Kenny said, hands in his pockets.

Stan whirled on Kenny. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” he spat angrily, and it took all his might to keep his voice down. “What the hell did you think you were playing at back there?”

Kenny patted Stan’s shoulder reassuringly, and unlike Kyle, Stan didn’t flinch at his touch. He just stared at the hand like it was a wet fish, so Kenny removed it, but held on to the mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Relax, Stan. I’ve interacted with plenty of Kyles in my lifetime. I know how to handle him.” He started walking, though his gate was more like a swagger, wallowing in his perceived triumph, and Stan had no choice but to follow. 

“Handle him? Handle him! Kenny, you did the precise opposite of ‘handling’ him!” Stan jabbed an accusatory finger at him, ending just inches from his chest.

“What happened?” Butters’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at his lover. “Kenny, what did you do?”

“Hush, I’ll tell you in a second,” Kenny said as he swung the door to Tiff’s open. It was a nice enough place, with a few tables and booths, a happily humming radio, and low lighting. It wasn’t too busy tonight, which was good, because the kind of conversation they were having was not one suitable for just anyone’s ears.

The men ordered their drinks and took a seat in the booth in the far corner, away from prying eyes.

“What did you do?” Butters asked again.

Stan answered before Kenny could, “He spent the entire time suggesting that Kyle was… a little too invested in your and Cartmans’ relations.”

“Oh,” Butter’s eyes went wide, and then wider, “Oh! Oh, Kenny, you didn’t!”

“He did,” Stan said contemptuously into his whiskey.

“It was not the entire time,” Kenny dismissed their concern with a relaxed flick of his wrist, “It was barely five minutes.”

“Kenny, any amount of time spent suggest someone is a homosexual is too long!” Stan was immune to his couldn’t-care-less charm.

Butters put his head in his hands, “Poor Kyle.” He looked up and scowled at his lover, “Kenny, you’re a beast.”

“Me! A beast!” Kenny could not seem to wrap his head around the notion that he was the one in the wrong here. “It was just a bit of fun.”

“Yeah, well, maybe for you,” Stan growled, “But the rest of us had the dignity to be ashamed.”

Kenny shook his head. “There ain’t no dignity in that, not any at all.”

Stan opened his mouth to argue, but he knew that any attempt at a rebuttal would fall on deaf ears, so he filled it with a cigarette instead. He went for his lighter, but found it wasn’t in his pocket.

“Looking for this?” Kenny waggled the shiny metal stick at him eagerly. He looked like he hoped Stan would make a grab for it, so he could whip it away in another childish game, but instead the sleuth just patiently held out his hand. Kenny stared at his open palm. After a moment, he disappointedly deposited the lighter in it. “You’re no fun,” he said, for the second time that evening.

“I’m still ticked off at you,” Stan said as he lit his smoke, “And I’m sick and tired of your stupid little games. They’re not as cute as you think they are.”

Kenny gasped, “I’m plenty cute enough! Right, Butters?”

Butters tilted his head to one side, squinted one eye shut and held up his fingers as if framing Kenny like a photo. “Hmm,” he said ambiguously, “It’s too hard to tell under this light.”

Kenny crossed his arms over his chest and slouched down in his seat. “The whole world’s against me,” he grumbled as he lit up a cigarette for himself. 

“Ever wonder why that might be?” Stan said contemptuously.

Kenny sighed and righted himself. He looked his friend in the eye, finally taking his complaints on board. “Listen, Stan. What I said - what I did, it was for the best.” Stan looked like he was about to launch into a lengthy explanation detailing exactly why that was bullshit, but Kenny wasn’t quite done. “Look, you’ve just got to trust me on this one, okay?” He used his cigarette to gesticulate, pointing meaningfully at Stan. “Trust me, when I say that things will work out just fine for you.”

Stan’s brows lowered dangerously as he thought that over. “Just what are you implying?” he said slowly.

Kenny’s face was a mask of innocence as he popped the cigarette back between his lips. “Nothing,” he said innocently. “Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Homophobia; Sex references.  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

After waiting for Craig at the mouth of the dilapidated alleyway by the station for over twenty-six minutes, Tweek decided he’d had enough. His feet hurt. He was tired. He was cold. The weather was so bitterly chilly, in fact, that every time he inhaled, it stung. The tip of his snub nose was numb and running. He sniffed and wiped it on the inside of his grey scarf, which he had wrapped snugly over the lower half of his face in an effort to keep the chill at bay. It was not working – the cold seeped its way in regardless.

He wondered if he should just head home. He felt like he should. The realisation that Craig had probably forgotten about their plans had crept up on him like the shadows in the night and sunk its teeth into the back of his neck. The oozing shame trickled down his spine. Of course, he wouldn’t show, Tweek thought. What had made him delusional enough to believe that Craig would want to spend any more time with a guy like Tweek in the first place? He’d either faded from Craig’s memory, just another weirdo in a line of many, or he’d decided that he’d rather watch paint dry than spend another waking moment with a freak like him.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

I should go, Tweek thought. I should head home. He looked down at his legs, feet frozen stiffly to the pavement, and willed them to start the long walk home. They did not move.

It was the foolish ‘what if’ at the back of his mind that stopped him; The image of Craig arriving just a few minutes after he’d bailed. The idea of him waiting around for Tweek. Pacing. Motoring through cigarette after cigarette, all the while, his stoic face never faltering. Perhaps he’d check inside, ask Heidi if she’d seen him, but of course she wouldn’t have, because Tweek would had given up like the coward he was. Craig would spend the rest of the night thinking that Tweek didn’t care about him. Not that he did, particularly, Tweek reminded himself firmly.

But if he left, Tweek might never see Craig again. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

Tweek had spent the past week thinking it over and had decided that the reason he was meeting with Craig again was because he was a good way of turning the force against Cartman. He was an intimidating guy, and clearly had a large amount of potential influence over the other cops. If he could appeal to Craig’s morality, get him to understand just how awful Cartman was, the rest of his job was pretty much done for him. Assuming Craig didn’t already know the full magnitude of Cartman’s crimes, of course.

A fraction of Tweek’s anxiety was alleviated by this justification. Yeah, that was it. That was why he’d suggested another meeting, why he’d shown up for round two. And that was totally why he didn’t want to miss out on ever seeing Craig again, because it would make his job a whole lot harder.

Tweek took a final glance up and down the street, even though he knew there wasn’t anyone else there. Well, then. It didn’t look like he had much choice. It was time to brave Jimmy’s Ritz alone.

Tweek took a tentative step into the alleyway. All at once, the darkness seemed to grow ten times thicker. He took his lighter out of his jacket pocket and flicked it on. A small, feeble flame appeared. It flickered, and Tweek cupped a hand around it, to protect it from the wicked wind. The shadows his fingers cast somewhat defeated the purpose of the lighter to begin with, but it still made him feel a little more secure. He drew himself up to his full height of five foot five and began a timid tiptoe down the side street.

Tweek made it to the end without getting murdered, which he counted as a personal victory. He turned to his left, and scanned the surroundings as best he could, until he found the little staircase which led down to the chipped red door. He scampered down the steps but lingered for a moment outside. He pressed his ear to the wood and found he could make out the distinct sound of a cheerful whistle. Bradley, he hoped. He was fucked if it was a new guy.

Tweek cast his mind back to how Craig had made it inside last week. He’d knocked, slowly and deliberately, five times. Or was it six? Tweek couldn’t remember now, and his mounting anxiety was doing nothing but addling his brain further.

He plucked up his courage, balled his fist, and knocked. One, two, three, four, five. He left a slightly longer gap after the fifth wrap, and noted how the letterbox remained shut, so hastily added a sixth. To his relief, the flap was flipped open. Bradley’s mud-brown eyes appeared.

“Password?”

Fuck. Tweek hadn’t thought this far. Craig had been exempted from this procedure last time, but Tweek doubted he’d get a similar special treatment. Still, he had to say something.

“It’s me, Tweek,” said Tweek.

“I can see that.” Bradley’s voice was slightly muffled, but the irritation was not easy to miss. Apparently, his association with the aforementioned Craig had not been forgotten. “Password.”

“Is it the same as last week’s?” Tweek stalled for time.

“Yeah,” Bradley said warily, “We only change it once a month.”

“Oh,” Tweek said. He ran his hands through his bird's nest hair, an act which involved a jerky sort of tugging motion, on account of the tangles his fingers got hooked in. Think fast, think fast.

“Look, I’m not letting you in without the password.” Bradley was not in the mood to stand around waiting, even if that was pretty much what his whole job entailed. “So, if you don’t got it, then beat it.”

And then something in Tweek’s mind clicked like a joint slotting back into place. “Well,” he said, tone calm and level, much more so than he actually was, “The password must be ‘open the fucking door, Bradley,’ mustn’t it.”

Bradley huffed indignantly, “It most certainly is not!”

“It has to be,” Tweek managed to maintain a cool exterior, “Because that’s what Craig said last Tuesday, and you opened it for him then.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s because-”

“So, either ‘Open the fucking door, Bradley,’ is the answer, or you let someone in without any sort of security checks.” He heard an intake of breath from the doorman but sailed smoothly on without giving him a chance to interject. “If it were the latter, then that would mean you failed to do the one thing you’re paid for and, well,” he chuckled, “I don’t think Jimmy would be all too happy to hear that, now would he?”

“But-”

“Would he, or would he not be happy about that?”

There was a disgruntled pause, and then, “No, he would not.”

“Gosh, it’s pretty lucky that it’s just you and I who know about that little mistake, then isn’t it?” Tweek smiled slyly at him. “Boy, it sure would be a shame if I were to bump into Jimmy. I’ll try to keep my trap shut best as I can, but something might slip out, you never know.” Tweek ran his tongue over his teeth, before adding, “I can be awful clumsy with my words sometimes.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Tweek leant casually on the railing and studied his fingernails, like he could do this all night. “I might.”

There was a beat of silence. A stalemate.

Tweek raised his gaze to meet Bradley’s. Slowly, confidently, he repeated his opening line. “Open the fucking door, Bradley.”

Bradley opened the fucking door.

Tweek glided past him like he was floating on air. He patted the doorman on the shoulder on his way by, “Thanks, buddy. You’re secret’s safe with me.”

Bradley didn’t even have time to splutter out a retort before Tweek disappeared down the stairs.

As he made it out of sight, Tweek’s mask of nonchalant quickly collapsed. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and leant his forehead on the bare-plaster wall, pushing hard, as if he could fight the pressure mounting inside his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, painfully tight. Shoulders rose and fell rapidly with the panic he’d suppressed. Tweek could feel his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to get his ribcage to let it out already. He stood like that for a moment, just shaking silently to himself. Eventually, he twisted so that it was his back resting against the wall and pulled up his sleeve to stare at his watch. He timed his breaths to the second hand, and to his surprise, he found that it helped. After a minute or two, he had calmed his panic down to a dull roar.

Tweek allowed himself just a moment more to reflect on what had happened. That was pretty impressive of him, actually. He’d been scared, but he’d played it cool, and came out on top, and for that he was proud of himself, a pleasant alternative to shame. I wish Craig had been there to see me do that, he thought, and then instantly felt uncomfortable, as if someone had snuck inside his brain and planted it there when he wasn’t looking. He pushed the thought to the side, pulled himself together, and entered the bar.

It was just as it had been the week before: small and seedy, but thankfully this time quieter. He took a cautious few steps inside, assessing the room, and a waitress with hair that fell about her face in blonde clouds approached.

“Hey there,” she simpered. All the waitresses did that here. Simper. “Can I get you a seat?”

Tweek was about to reply when a feminine voice from behind him beat him to it.

“I’ve got this one, Annie.”

Tweek leapt three feet in the air and whipped around to see Heidi hovering nearby.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, hun!” She put a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched away from her touch.

Annie was eyeing Heidi like she’d put a bad taste in her mouth. “Alright, fine, you serve him then,” she said coldly, friendliness vanishing along with her sickly-sweet smile, “Suit yourself.” She turned and stalked off, and Heidi watched her go with a similar expression of distaste.

She muttered something under her breath, which Tweek thought might have been, “Bitch.” He had a hard time imagining someone like her saying such a thing, so dismissed it.

“Anyway, if you follow me, I’ll find you a nice little spot,” Heidi reset back to her old chirpy self. “Same as last time?”

“Uh, sure,” Tweek nodded, and he followed her to his table. He was not one to pass up an opportunity for routine. His reluctance stemmed from his surprise that she remembered where he’d been sitting last time.

He was even more taken aback when she said, “What can I get you, Tweek?” Heidi noticed his eyebrows rise like they were made of helium and asked, “What?”

“You… remembered my name,” he said lamely.

“Of course, I do!” Heidi beamed. “I never forget a face. Plus, you’re pretty memorable.”

Tweek was not entirely sure that was a good thing.

“Anyway, what would you like?” Heidi prompted again. “Same as last time?” Apparently, never forgetting an order was one of her skills, too.

“Oh. Um, yeah, thanks.”

“Coming right up,” Heidi skipped off. Tweek observed how energetic she was, never walking but bouncing. He wished his own excess of energy could be channelled into the same upbeat springiness that she possessed, instead of the constant twitching and fidgeting that he performed instead.

Tweek rested his gaze on the stage, just to give his eyes somewhere to focus. It was only one man on a piano tonight, slower, a smooth sort of jazz. He preferred it. He allowed himself to be distracted by the melody, even lulled a little, and it dawned on him that he was substantially less anxious now than he had been the last time he was here. Sure, he wasn’t relaxed per say, but he was never relaxed. To relax would be to let your guard down, and Tweek would never, ever do that.

After a few minutes, Heidi returned, carrying his coffee. “Here you are,” she set it in front of him.

“Thanks,” Tweek nodded appreciatively, even though he knew it would be awful.

“No Craig tonight?” She asked curiously.

“He was meant to be here,” Tweek admitted, “But he’s not shown up yet.”

Heidi did not seem particularly shocked. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” she said, “He often winds up pulling shifts later than he wants to. Eric really works him to the bone.” She sighed melancholically, as if she was somehow responsible for this arrangement.

Tweek noted with some surprise that she referred to Cartman by his first name, something he’d never heard anyone do before. “Do you know the Chief personally?” he asked.

Heidi blinked. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, but she quickly found her smile again, even if it went back on a little crooked. “Oh, no!” she said lightly. “No, Craig’s just complained to me about him a lot, that’s all.”

This caught Tweek’s interest. He nibbled on his lip and then asked, “Do you want to join me? Since Craig isn’t here yet it would be nice to have your company.”

Heidi looked very pleased indeed. “I’d love to,” she set her drink down and occupied one of the two empty seats tucked in at the table, “It’s dead in here tonight anyway.”

Tweek took a sip of his coffee and then wished he hadn’t. He swallowed back his natural urge to grimace, a true mark of his acting abilities. “So,” he asked, “Has Craig had trouble with Cartman before, then?”

Heidi nodded, “Yeah, sure has. The Chief treats him like his personal janitor.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Eric has a habit of making quite the mess, especially when he’s making arrests. He’s not the sort to do things by the book, which you’d think would be a dealbreaker for a man in his line of work, but it’s been three years since he was promoted to Chief of Police and he’s only got more and more crooked. I guess he’s only paid to enforce a respect for the law onto others, not himself.”

There she went again, calling him Eric. Tweek decided not to call her out on it this time, just let her go on.

“Anyway, his unorthodox methods wouldn’t look too favourable on paper in the aftermath. And that’s saying something, considering the force’s tendencies to overlook certain discretions, you know? But he really goes above and beyond with the stuff he pulls.” Heidi’s face darkened, “The sky’s the limit.”

Tweek licked his lips nervously. “So how does he get away with it?”

“Well, that’s Craig’s job,” Heidi said. “He fills in all the right paperwork that says none of the slip-ups ever happened. It’s not glamorous work, but he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, right?”

Tweek nodded in agreement, but in his heart knew that no, actually, he didn’t ‘gotta’ do anything. Complicity was not compulsory. He’d been hoping, secretly, that Cartman was the sole coordinator of the terror that the PD reigned down upon South Park, and that Craig was just a good guy trying to do a good job in a not-so-good place. He should have known that wouldn’t have been the case. It would have made things too neat, too easy, too simple. Nothing was ever that god damn simple.

“So, you reckon Craig’s late because Cartman’s got him pushing pencils over a botched job?”

“Sure do,” Heidi traced her finger around the rim of the ash tray in the centre of the table. She wouldn’t meet his eye, just stared at the door across the room, as if hoping Craig would enter at that very moment and save her from the way this conversation was headed. He did not.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Tweek said with interest.

Heidi reddened. “Well, yeah,” she said hastily, “I’ve been known to listen occasionally, you know. I don’t spend all my time yakking.”

Tweek knew she was hiding something. He could sense it in the way the waitress held her back just a little too straight, her shoulders just a little too stiff. He knew he should press her harder on this, but he suspected her rigidness was a mask for brittleness, emotionally speaking, and Tweek was worried the wrong word might break her, snap her in two. He wouldn’t be able to put her back together again, he wasn’t cut out for that sort of work. He was formulating a way to proceed delicately, but she spoke again before he got the chance.

“Your black eye cleared up nicely,” she smiled brightly, and only she could get excited by the fading of a bruise.

She wasn’t wrong, though, it had: Tweek’s eye was back to being ringed with plain old deep dark bags like normal. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, thanks.”

“You gonna tell me how you got it yet?”

This being his third request to hear his story, Tweek was not stressed about its delivery, and cut to the chase. “Cartman,” he said flatly. “A little gift from him to me.”

Heidi’s smile deflated like a balloon whose air was slowly being let out. “Oh,” she said, voice as small as she’d become. “What did you do?”

“You know,” Tweek offered her a weak smile, “I’m still not entirely certain. Nothin’ really. Wrong place, wrong time, is all.”

Heidi looked like she could believe that. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Oh, Tweek, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Tweek’s eyebrows knit together like a sweater, “You don’t have to be sorry, it’s not like you did it.”

With the way she reacted, you’d think she had. Heidi didn’t say anything. She just stared numbly at her hands. Tweek noticed with alarm that her eyes were getting real shiny. Oh, Jesus, was she about to cry? Tweek wondered, panicked. She was brittle, then, like he’d suspected. He was willing to lie and manipulate his way into finishing his job, but make a woman cry? And one as sweet as her? He wouldn’t - he couldn’t.

“So, how long have you been working here, Heidi?” Tweek blurted out. It was a lame attempt at clearing the air, but something needed to be said, and she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

Heidi blinked for just a fraction too long, and Tweek knew it was because she was trying to stop the tears from welling over. Luckily for both, it worked. “Oh, about three years now,” she said, voice a little wobbly but regaining its balance. “It’s not too bad, really. Sure, we get dodgy types around sometimes, but nothing we can’t handle, and I prefer it to my day job.”

“Day job?” Tweek repeated, surprised. “You got two?”

“Sure do,” Heidi said, and in that moment, and that moment only, Tweek caught sight of the woman hidden beneath the merry mask. Run down, worn to the bone, running on adrenaline alone. Utterly and completely exhausted.

“What do you do?” Tweek asked.

“I clean one of the office blocks on Main Street, where the South Park Gazette operates from.”

“...Why?” The question slipped out without meaning to, and Heidi looked like she might actually answer, but at that exact moment – 0027 – Craig arrived.

Lit by the low light of the bar, the bags under Craig’s eyes were exaggerated to an almost cartoonish extent. The slump of his shoulders made him seem smaller somehow, as did his sluggish gait. Everything about him seemed dulled, like he’d been set upon by sandpaper. Even his expression, normally stony and reserved, had worn away to that of one of utter dejection.

He sat down heavily and put out the cigarette he was holding in the ashtray that Heidi hat scooted towards herself. Without a word, he dug around in his jacket pocket, pulled out another, and lit it immediately. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said between puffs. “I came here straight from work, soon as I could.” This was evident by the uniform he was still donning, which was earning him a few suspicious glares from other customers. Tweek noticed nervously that Craig still had his gun in his belt.

“Are you alright, Craig?” Heidi said, and Tweek wished he’d been the one to ask first.

“Just dandy,” Craig said flatly. He yawned, and the cigarette fell out his mouth and onto the table. He fumbled for it quickly, but a small black singe remained.

“Rough night?” Tweek asked, and Craig snorted.

“You could say that.”

“What happened?” Tweek was desperate to know if Heidi’s theory had been correct.

Craig took another long drag of his smoke, and it seemed to Tweek like an excuse to avoid the question more than anything else. Eventually, he said, “Nothing much.” This was obviously not the case, but Tweek didn’t dare push it. Not even because he was afraid it might make Craig mad, but simply because he looked like talking about it was the last thing he wanted to do.

So, instead, Tweek said, “You look like you could use a drink.”

Craig offered him a small, appreciative smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I sure could.”

“Right on it,” Heidi leapt up and got to it.

“Sorry for being late,” Craig said again. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Tweek said, even though it wasn’t. “Heidi kept me busy.”

Craig raised his eyebrows, “I’m sure she did. I’m surprised your ears are still attached to your head, seeing as she has a habit of trying to talk ‘em off.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad,” Tweek shrugged.

“How’d you even get in?” Craig asked. “Didn’t Bradley give you a hard time about not knowing the stupid password?”

“He tried to,” Tweek said, “but I made it past him anyway.”

“Well, congrats,” Craig winked, “If you can get in without the password, then you know you’ve earnt the right to hang in this hellhole on account of being sneaky-slash-asshole enough.”

“Thanks?” Tweek wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but he couldn’t help but feel proud of his achievement, nonetheless. “What is the password, anyway?”

“Uh, ‘fish sticks,’ I think,” Craig said. “It’s some stupid joke of Jimmy’s. I’ll explain it some other time.” He rubbed his temples, “God, I’m being real inconsiderate. I haven’t even asked how your audition went.”

“Oh!” Tweek said in surprise. He was beginning to realise that he was the sort to get shocked when anyone remembered anything about him at all. Why would they? It wasn’t as if he was particularly important. “It went well,” he said, “Yeah, it went really well, actually. I’ve got a call back next week.”

He was rewarded with a sleepy smile, which was enough to hatch the cocoons nestled in Tweek’s gut and unleash a rush of giddy butterflies.

“That’s great, Tweek,” Craig said huskily. “That’s just great.”

“Thanks,” Tweek turned a lovely shade of pink. He swallowed down a few butterflies that were trying to escape from his tummy up his oesophagus.

Their conversation flowed on natural and easy, just like last time. As the night progressed the tenseness seemed to slowly ebb from Craig’s muscles, until he was sitting back in his chair, chuckling along to whatever stupid anecdote Tweek had dug up from the back of his mind and was spewing out his mouth. To his relief, Craig did not bring up the topic of the source of Tweek’s now-faded black eye, and once it was apparent that he was not planning on doing so, Tweek was able to relax a little, too. Heidi hung around, and Craig let her. But every now and then she’d start to say something, then catch a look from Craig and stop halfway through, get real quiet. It was bizarre, but Tweek didn’t press her on it, not with Craig there, and not after what had happened earlier. Shortly after ordering their second round of drinks, Heidi left them to go see to another table. Tweek decided that now was a good time to broach the subject of police work, since that they were alone and they’d both loosened up.

He dropped his voice a level, eyeing the waitress from across the room. “I ought to tell you,” he said to Craig, “Heidi was telling me about what Cartman has you do sometimes.”

Everything about Craig went stiff again. It was as if the past hour had never happened. “She did, did she?” he said slowly, guarded.

Tweek wanted to back out, but knew he couldn’t, not now, he had to finish what he started, so he went on. “About how you have to tidy up after the messes he makes.” Tweek paused, searching Craig for something, anything, but his face was as unreadable as ever. He bit the bullet. “Is that… is that true?”

Craig took a deep intake of breath and let it out slowly, steadily, like a punctured tire. “I used to be so careful,” he said, deep voice horse, scarcely a whisper, so that Tweek had to lean in to pick it up. “I used to be so vigilant. I knew cops dictated justice and not the other way around, but I figured if I stuck to my morals, things- things would work out. I could help people. I could stick up for the vulnerable. I could make a difference.” He stopped and shook his head, and he looked so, so tired, like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Maybe it did. “I was so sure I could make a difference, Tweek. I had a good head on my shoulders, better than most, I liked to think. But the thing about the force is, it’s not the individuals who are crooked, it’s the system itself. You can’t last too long in there without having to make exceptions to your rules, sooner or later, to save your buddies’ asses. Sure, maybe they were a little out of line, but they were only doing their best, right? They had to make a split-second decision – how were they to know it would be the wrong one? The next one could be right. So, you let it slide, for the sake of ‘next time.’ Everyone deserves a chance to learn from their mistakes, you tell yourself.”

Tweek nodded but didn’t dare speak.

The words were gushing out now, not like waterfall, but an open wound. “One accident is just that: a mistake. But, too late, you start to realise that this isn’t an anomaly: it’s a habit.” A shadow seemed to pass over his face, “No, it’s a tradition. It’s a way of life, enacted systematically, unquestioned, and unwavering. Problem is, by now you’ve grown used to all your little excuses, all the itty-bitty lies you tell yourself, so now the bigger ones are far too easy to digest. Then, you blink,” he lifted his hand in between the two of them and snapped his fingers.

Tweek jumped two inches out of his seat, but Craig didn’t seem to notice.

“You blink, and it’s two years down the line. You’ve got the blood of every citizen who’s ever been caught in the crossfire on your hands, every innocent guy who’s ever ended up behind bars. It’s stained so deep into your palms that that shit ain’t ever washing out.”

Tweek stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

Craig went on, full steam ahead. His gaze was so piercing that Tweek felt like they were the only two in the room. “That’s how they poison you, Tweek,” Craig said, eyes searching him desperately. “The rot, it eats away at your insides like wormwood. It curdles your blood and sours your brains. That’s how you become one of them: twisted. Crooked. Not with a bang, but a slow, sickening decline. You rot, right to the core, and the worst part is…” He stopped, and for a moment he looked like- Christ, he looked like maybe he was gonna cry.

“What?” Tweek breathed, unable to look away. “What’s the worst part?”

Craig leant on the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright, chest heaving. Tweek watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. When at last he spoke, he had steadied himself, and his voice was husky but restrained. “The worst part is you let it happen.”

Neither said anything for a good long while as that sank in. They simply stewed over what had been said.

It was Tweek who broke the spell, when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “Shit,” he said softly. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.” Craig cleared his throat and tugged on the lapels of his jacket. The magnitude of what he’d just said finally seemed to hit him, and he looked embarrassed. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he ran his fingers through his hair, which was so dark it seemed to absorb light like an abyss. “I’m rambling. Don’t listen to me. I’m just tired, I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He did though. More than anyone else Tweek had spoken to yet.

Tweek felt an immense sadness wash over him, as if he were at his own funeral, because he knew, in his heart, what he had to do next. Now was the time to tell Craig about what Stan had hired him to do. He would find no better opportunity, and since it was apparent that Craig loathed the force from his position inside just as those outside did, too, he could probably be persuaded quite easily to join Tweek’s cause. Plus, with his position, he had a prime opportunity to get dirt on the Chief. Tweek could probably get paid extra for that. Job done.

Tweek opened his mouth. No sound came out. His jaw just hung there, like he was looking to catch flies. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t say it. His tongue was locked to the base of his mouth, immovable, and worst of all, he knew exactly why.

He was terrified that Craig might suppose that everything, everything about their meetings had just been part of Tweek’s ploy to turn the rest of the cops against Cartman. Even if he did agree to help, their relationship would no longer be that of an unlikely budding friendship, but instead simply colleagues, any potential bonds cut short by the pretence that this was just a game of manipulation for both of them. Craig had only just begun to let down his guard, crack himself open like a geode, and Tweek was too mesmerized by the crystals inside to quit. He couldn’t quit, he just couldn’t.

Tweek was a selfish coward. He knew it to be true. He had the loaded pistol ready and aimed in his hand, and he still couldn’t bring himself to pull the fucking trigger.

He had to say something, though, now that his mouth was open, and he still didn’t want to let the subject drop all together. The opportunity to dig deeper into the infinite caverns of Craig Tucker was not something he could pass up. “You know,” Tweek said carefully, deliberately, “I’m not sure I’ve heard you say one positive word about your time on the force.” He was acutely aware of the dangerous territory he was wading into, but forged ahead, nonetheless. “Why’d you even become a cop in the first place?”

“Oh,” Craig rubbed the back of his neck, “It’s a long story.”

Tweek sat back in his chair, “I’ve got time.”

Was that… a blush, creeping up Craig’s face? It couldn’t be. Could it? “It’s dumb,” he muttered.

“I’m sure it’s not,” Tweek reassured, because now he absolutely had to know, at all costs. “Even if it is, dumb tales are more entertaining than smart ones.”

“Alright,” Craig said reluctantly.

Tweek sat up straighter, attentive, doing his best to keep his twitching to a minimum. “Shoot.”

“Well, when I was working in the asylum, I got to know one of the patients there, a guy named Thomas. He was an oddball alright. Never spoke to anyone, anyone at all, painfully shy. He’d blurt out swears a lot, just to himself. He couldn’t help it.”

Slow recognition dawned on Tweek like the sun as it rose. “Say,” he said, “I think you’ve mentioned him before. In the-” he stopped short when he remembered where exactly he was when he’d heard of him.

“In the bathroom a few weeks ago, yeah,” Craig nodded. He didn’t seem as embarrassed about it as Tweek was, but in retrospect, Tweek realised that Craig must have witnessed hundreds of incidents like that. Heck, it was probably on the tame side from his perspective. “So, yeah, a guy named Thomas, who had…” he trailed off, and his eyes lost focus, as if rooting around for something in the back of his mind, “God, what was it called? Oh!” He snapped his fingers, and Tweek winced, as he always did when someone did that. “Tourette’s! Tourette’s syndrome. You heard of it?”

Tweek had not, but he nodded anyway, because he did not want the conversation to get derailed. He’d picked up the gist of it from what Craig had mentioned before and now, anyway.

“Well, Thomas was one of the first of the folk I met in the job. My first day, I was stationed in a room with him and a few others who also had milder issues, because they wanted to start me off easy. Initially I thought maybe he had- I don’t know, anger issues or something, on account of him swearing all the time, but he didn’t seem angry when he said it. He just seemed… kind of sad, actually. None of the other patients ever talked to him, and in a way, I think he preferred it like that. He was real self-conscious. Half the patients in the hospital felt they oughta be sent home, no clue why they were there in the first place, but Thomas knew. You could tell by the way he sat, dripping in shame.”

Tweek could relate. He put an arm on the table and tilted his head, cupping his cheek in one hand. “What did he look like?” He asked, eager to complete the picture of the man he was piecing together in his mind.

“Small,” Craig said, “Pale as paper, skin and bones. Blond hair they clipped short, but always grew back quickly. Freckles like someone had blown sand across his face. Big, brown eyes that you could feel on the back of your neck as he stared at you from across the room. Kind of twitchy.” He paused, scanned Tweek cautiously up and down, then added, “Kind of like you, actually.”

Tweek wasn’t sure what to do with that last comment, so he just nodded.

“So, anyway. It’s my first day on the job, and there he is. Huddled in the corner, knees up to his chest. And the moment I walk in, he locks his eyes on me, and says: ‘Cock!’” Craig slammed his hands on the table as he said this, and his voice must have been just a little too loud, because he earnt quite a few strange glances from the diners at the nearby tables. Craig cleared his throat and lowered his voice to an appropriate level. “So, already, we’re off to a good start.”

Tweek giggled girlishly. The image of the two was just so vivid to him.

“And it’s like that for the next week and a half. Every day, I come in, and Thomas just… stares. He stares, and he stares, and he stares. He spits out swears and fidgets and bites his nails, but all the while, he never takes his eyes off me. I ask some colleagues about him over lunch one day, and they reassure me that he does that to all the new guys: the glaring.” Craig adopts a nasally voice, an apparent impression of a co-worker. ‘He’ll get used to you soon enough,’ they tell me. ‘Just ignore him, and he’ll give it up eventually. All he wants is attention.’” He shook his head, as if all these years later he still couldn’t believe it. “They say it like that. ‘All he wants is attention.’ Like he’s some fucking untrainable dog. Well, he wasn’t, he was a human being, even if he they didn’t treat him like he was. And anyway, doesn’t everyone want attention? That’s all people ever do anything for, really: attention.”

“Sure,” Tweek said, “I guess so.”

“Well, I think to myself, if he wants attention, why shouldn’t he have it? So, the next time I catch him staring, I smile.”

“You smiled?” Somehow, this stood out to Tweek more than anything so far. It had taken a good long while before Craig had even moved a muscle in his face in front of him, let alone smiled. The idea of him doing it for Thomas made him almost jealous.

“Sure, I did, just a little,” Craig shrugged, “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Tweek squirmed in his seat, “You just don’t do that often. Smile.”

“Well, I thought I’d try it out, just to see what it felt like,” Craig said flatly.

Tweek regretted saying anything in the first place. “Sorry,” he murmured, “Continue.”

Craig did. “So, I smile at him,” he said, “And he immediately looks away. You’d have thought I’d raised a hand at him, the way he cowered. He won’t meet my eye the rest of the day, and it takes him a few days more to brave another glance at me. I smile again when he does, because by then I’ve learnt that it’s important to be predictable and consistent around fellas like him, and you know what?”

“What?”

“He smiles back. Cautiously, timidly. Like a bunny rabbit.”

Tweek hummed ambiguously, impatient for the next part, which came in due course.

“So, after a few days of just grinning at each other, he finally gets brave enough to shift a little closer. Close enough to say something. And you know, he does, and it’s the first thing I’ve heard comin’ out of his mouth that wasn’t a profanity.”

“What did he say?”

The corner of Craig’s mouth twitched upwards at the memory. “’Hi-de-ho!’ That’s what he said: ‘Hi-de-ho’, like we were two acquaintances who happened to meet at a bus stop, not a mental patient at an insane asylum and his security guard. And so, I say hello back, and he looks all pleased, like he was hoping I would respond, but wasn’t sure. He doesn’t say anything after that, just mumbles quietly to himself and loops his fingers about one another, like this.” Craig touched the tip of his middle finger to his thumb on each hand, then interlocked the two circles he’d formed. “He did that a lot. Then he’d pull at it, like it was some sort of puzzle, trying to figure out how to get them undone.”

“And did he?” Tweek asked. “Get it undone, I mean.”

“Yeah, every time,” Craig nodded, “But whenever he did, he’d just lock ‘em right back together again.”

“Weird,” said Tweek.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Craig shrugged, “It was kind of sweet.” There it was again, that blush from before, almost imperceptible. Tweek caught it, nonetheless. “Anyway, as time goes on, we make it past ‘hi-de-hos’ and into actual conversation. He tells me all about himself: who he is, where he’s from, what he’s planning on doing if he ever gets out.”

“Did he ever?” Tweek asked, “Did he ever get out?”

“I’m getting to that,” Craig said, putting his hands up as if to slow Tweek down, “Hold your horses.”

“Sorry,” Tweek mumbled.

“So anyway, as I get more accustomed to working at the hospital, management moves me around, into some of the tougher areas. I still get stationed in Thomas’s ward sometimes, and that’s where I get on best. The months go by and Thomas keeps up our little chats, and according to the other staff who are there when I’m not, he even starts talking to some of the other patients, too. Sure, he still swears compulsively, but overall, his mood starts to shift. Over the next two years, I watch as Thomas slowly gains confidence in himself. Little by little, steps so small you might not notice if you weren’t paying attention like I was. He’s a changed man by the end of it: always grinning and chirping away to whomever will listen. It’s real nice to see.” A soft smile spread across Craig’s face. Tweek thought that was real nice to see, too. “So, in answer to your question, yeah. Yeah, he did get out, which is a real rarity for folk stuck in places like that. And he deserved his freedom, too. He’d worked so hard to get better.”

“Oh, that’s good! That’s good, I’m glad.” Under the table, Tweek hung his hands limply from his wrists and shook them, vigorously, the way he sometimes did when he was excited. He frowned, “But I’m not quite sure how that all relates to you becoming a cop.”

Craig’s smile fell off the face of the earth. “Oh. Right. That.” He didn’t say anything more, and Tweek had to prompt him to do so.

“So, how does it relate, then?”

Craig steeled himself. “Thomas leaves, and that’s it. I don’t hear from him again.” He paused, then corrected himself. “No, actually, I did hear from him once. He wrote to me, a few months later. Just a short note, telling me how he’d moved to South Park, started a new life. He still swore and he still twitched, but he was making a home for himself, anyway. I’ve still got that letter, somewhere, I think.”

“So that’s why you moved from Denver to South Park, then?” Tweek guessed. “To see Thomas?”

Craig’s stony expression got stonier. “That would have been swell. No, instead, the next I heard about him was in the paper, about a year later.”

“The paper?”

“Right on the front page, in big, block letters: ‘Man Shot Dead in Shopping Centre for Resisting Police Arrest.’ And right next to it, his picture. His face.”

Tweek’s breath hitched. “Oh my God,” he whispered, hands cupped over his mouth in horror. “Oh- fuck, Craig, I’m so sorry.”

Craig didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “They killed him, Tweek,” he said, and his voice was unnervingly calm. He took a deep breath and said it again: “They killed him. The article went on to say how a shopper had got ticked off by his swearing and had called the cops on him when he wouldn’t stop. The police arrived and took his uncontrollable profanities to be aggression towards them. They tried to cuff him, and of course- of course he resisted. He’d done nothing wrong. His only crime was having the audacity to live a life with Tourette’s. But that was crime enough for them. He tried to push them off, to run, and they shot him, seven times. Seven. Times. In front of the entire store. Even in death he wasn’t allowed dignity. I– fuck.” His voice cracked and he put a hand over his mouth, as if to stop the stream of words that were gushing out now, faster and faster. He swallowed, pulled out his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and lit one, hands shaking. He took a long, deep puff, eyes closed, expression pained. He did not speak for a while, and Tweek let the silence hang, because he knew words would only make it worse. Eventually, Craig opened his eyes, and when he spoke again, the facade of levelheadedness was gone. He was raw and he was real. “The article didn’t say who it was who shot him, only that they hadn’t been fired for it, because it was justified as him defending the public. I still don’t know who it was who did it. It could have been anyone, I know that. I probably see them every day, I probably work alongside them, oblivious.”

Tweek shook his head slowly, in disgust and in disbelief. “But- But how? How on earth did you read that and think, ‘that sure sounds like an institution I’d like to be a part of?’”

“I didn’t,” Craig said, “I read it, and thought, ‘That sure sounds like an institution I need to be a part of.’ I knew, that if I had been there, if there had been someone like me there, I could have deescalated the situation. I could have kept things calm. I could have… I could have kept him safe. Thomas wasn’t the first to be slaughtered by the hands of incompetents like them, and I knew he wouldn’t be the last. I had to do something, something to make a difference, because no one else would.” He inhaled again on his cigarette, then said, “I couldn’t stand to stick around the asylum anymore, anyway. Places like that are too stagnant, too stale. Like I said before, Thomas’s improvement was a rarity, not the rule. After another two months working there whilst fretting over what to do, I came to the conclusion that I just couldn’t stomach it there any longer. I handed in my notice, packed up my bags, and moved to South Park. I applied to join the force, and got in, no sweat, because I guess I’m the kind of guy other cops like to have watching their backs. Two years later, here I am.”

“Oh,” Tweek said. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Craig said, and exhaustion oozed from every fibre of his body. “Oh.”

Tweek felt like he’d just watch Craig tear himself open and let his guts spill out onto the table between them, a bloody mess. He was petrified by the sight of it, unprepared for this new level of vulnerability, and unnerved by it, too.

“I’ve- I’ve never told anyone that story,” Craig said shakily, and he looked shellshocked by the sight of his insides too. “No one at all.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Tweek said, and in that moment, he knew it was. Fuck Stan, fuck his case. Tweek could go back to hanging out with Clyde, and work on him instead. Craig’s body and soul were too precious to be borne to anyone but himself.

“I trust you, Tweek,” Craig said, and he seemed surprised by these words, as if someone else had said it, not he. “I-I don’t know why,” he smiled, almost awkward, “But I do. Isn’t that weird?”

“No,” Tweek breathed shakily. “Craig, I-” He was about to say it back, but it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room, in one great suffocating sweep. His hands flew to his throat and he gasped and spluttered like a fish out of water, shallow and desperate. He couldn’t breathe. He throat was closing over, and he actually, seriously couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Are you okay?” Craig looked alarmed.

Tweek bent at the waist and coughed, hard, a rattling sound that shook his frail shoulders, burnt the back of his throat, and bought tears to his eyes. Craig moved to go to him, but Tweek put a hand up to stop him. “Just give me a second,” he spluttered between hacks. Eventually, he regained his composure, along with the ability to draw breath. “Sorry,” he panted, “Sorry, yes, I’m okay.” He took a few more shuddering gasps, eyes tight shut, and tried to block out the room. Craig occupied himself with his cigarette as he waited patiently for Tweek to recover.

So that was that, then. Tweek was forced to admit to himself that ‘I trust you’ was not something he would ever be able to say to anyone, no matter how much he wanted to. Because, in truth, he did not trust anyone. He never would. That was that.

Still, there was the next best thing. It was equally terrifying, but since Craig had relived his worst memories, it seemed only right that Tweek do the same. “I lost someone,” he said, hands still shaking, voice still unsteady. “In the war. I lost someone who I was also…” He chose his next words very carefully, “Close to.”

Craig softened. “Oh,” he said, “Oh, Tweek, I’m so sorry.” He put out his cigarette, then looked back up at him. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said, with such sincerity. “I know that sort of thing can be hard. Recounting trauma.”

“I want to,” Tweek said, as it occurred to him that he did. Though the realisation frightened him, it gave him strength, too. “Craig, I want to tell you.”

“Okay,” Craig said. “When you’re ready.”

Tweek wasn’t ready, but he never would be, so he began. “I was stationed in the Philippines.” He found it easier to stare at the ashtray where the still-smouldering butt stood erect than to meet his companion’s eye, but the sharp intake of breath was enough to gage his reaction. “I was a very different person back then. Less, uh, fidgety,” he gestured to himself, then admitted, “Still no impulse control, though. I had a bad habit of saying exactly what I was thinking. That got me into quite a lot of trouble, because the generals always mistook my comments for backtalk. They weren’t, at least, I didn’t mean them to be. They were just observations. But they don’t conscript people because they’re looking for observations. You know, it was a miracle I wasn’t discharged on my first day.” He braved a glance up at Craig, to see if he was still listening. He was, and nodded, as if to confirm so. “Well, I wasn’t discharged for it,” Tweel continued. “Instead, every time I got yelled at for my insolence, they made me run laps around the camp, which was awful, because everyone would watch and gape whilst I did it. They’d stare, and though no one ever said anything, I could still hear ‘em, their thoughts were so loud: ‘What an idiot.’ That’s what they thought. ‘Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.’ And I was, really. My tongue worked faster than my common sense did. Every day, without fail, I’d say something stupid, and I’d be made to do laps. It got to the point where all I had to do was open my mouth and I’d be sent off running round the camp. Well, one morning, when I’d finished my first lap and was just starting on the second, I glanced behind myself to find that I wasn’t alone. There was another man, tall, deep tan, dark hair, jogging along. He pulled up beside me, and I could see that he was grinning – grinning! I’d not seen someone smile like that since I’d left home, why should I have? There was no reason to. No one smiled where I was stationed. But there he was, grinning away at me. Didn’t say nothing, just grinned.”

“Had you spoken to him before?” asked Craig.

“No,” Tweek shook his head, “Never in my life. I didn’t even know why he was running with me in the first place, turned out he’d decided to join me just because he felt like it! Anyway, I manage to keep my trap shut for the rest of the day, but during dinner that evening, he came and found me. He sat down, right next to me, stuck his hand out, and said ‘Michael,’ like I’d asked. Well, turned out Michael had a mouth with a motor speed that could rival mine, and since none of the other soldiers were much for conversation, we became firm friends. Every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, we’d sit side by side, giggling and gossiping, talking about life before the war, and what it would be like afterwards. He was Filipino, born and bred, but had big shiny ideas about immigrating to America and living out the American Dream. I didn’t have much ambition for anything, at that point, and not much hope that I’d live long enough to see the other side of the war either. But talks with Michael made me feel like anything was possible. Like we had the whole world at our fingertips. Like we could do anything, anything at all.”

“Sounds like a good guy,” Craig said, sincerely. “Can’t imagine you met many like that, where you were stationed.”

“No,” Tweek agreed, and a big, goofy smile spread across his face. “He was one-in-a-million kind of guy alright. We never left each other’s sides, and since the generals figured out pretty quickly that my ‘observations’ were reduced to exchanging a knowing glance whenever Michael was with me, we were always put together in our mission, too. Over time, they just switched to treating us like one person, a single unit: Michael-n’-Tweek, said all in one breath like that. ‘Michael-n’-Tweek, you’re on lookout. Michael-n’-Tweek, you hold the front. Michael-n’-Tweek, you radio for backup and-” Tweek stopped, voice catching. He knew what was coming up next. This was the part he tried never to think about, even though he did, late at night, through his sobs. And now, here he was, willingly rattling it off out loud. But the ball was rolling, and he couldn’t stop now, and in a way, he didn’t want to.

“Backup never came,” Tweek said, and though there were tremors in his voice, he pushed through. “We held out from the Japanese for four months. Four torturous months. Those were the worst days of my entire life, but you know what? If I had the chance to go back, I would, just to see him again. Just to see his smile. Somehow, throughout everything, Michael kept smiling. It was the only thing that kept me going, all the way up until- until, well, we couldn’t hold out any longer. The Japanese advanced and their bullets came down on us like acid rain. Men around us were dropping like flies, but we both made it, right until the very last second, and then we didn’t. Michael was- he was… he was hit. Right in the gut. If that bullet had gone just a few inches to the left, it would have lodged right into me. It should have. But it didn’t. It hit him, instead, and he went down.” Tweek paused to take a desperate breath of air but he didn’t stop for long. “I got down and I held him, and he asked- he said ‘Tweek? Tweek, are you alright? Are you okay?’ Like I was the one who’d been shot, not him.

“‘Yeah, I’m alright,’ I told him. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’ And the light started fading from his eyes, and he got this sort of desperate expression, like he couldn’t see me anymore.

“‘Talk to me,’ he whispered, ‘Talk to me so I know you’re there.’

“So, I cupped his face in my hands and I talked to him. I told him about America, how big and beautiful it is. I told him about South Park. I told him what it was like to step out into the streets and taste the city air and watch everyone hustle and bustle by you like they’ve got someplace to be. I told him how terrible the traffic is a four-thirty and how terrible the people are on Friday nights. I told him everything, everything I could think of. And then he looked at me, in one last moment of clarity. He looked me in the eyes and he… he smiled. He just smiled. And then he died.”

Tweek blinked rapidly as he came back to the room, to the present. The sound of the piano returned, and there was Craig, sitting in front of him at their little round table. Craig stretched a hand across it, bridging the infinite gulf between the two, and brushed a thumb gently across his cheek, wiping away tears he hadn’t even felt were there. Tweek flinched but did not pull away.

“That’s awful,” Craig said, “That’s so… God, I can’t even begin to imagine what that would have been like. It must have been so traumatising.”

Tweek nodded. A lump the size of Jupiter was knotting in his throat. The tears were falling freer now, thick and heavy and fast, and he smeared them across his face with his sleeve. “I think-” He hiccupped, “I think I’m gonna go.” He could feel a panic attack coming, and he preferred to have it in the privacy of his own home.

Craig nodded, already slipping the money under his glass. “Right,” he said, seriously. “I’ll drive you home.”

Tweek did not protest this time. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to just get out of there.

They crossed the bar and went up the flight of stairs. They made it to the hallway to where Bradley was still stationed, and he looked up when he heard their rapid footsteps approaching. He opened his mouth, probably to complain about something, but a sharp death stare from Craig meant his jaw clamped shut and he stepped wordlessly to the side. Tweek had never been more grateful for Craig’s power over others.

Neither spoke when they got into the car. Craig did not need to ask for Tweek’s address again, just started driving without a word. Tweek was still crying, and his breathing was starting to digress to the ragged gasps that accompanied every attack he had. He fumbled for his cuff, drew it back and began the battle to match his breaths to the beats. He felt a pair of eyes on him and looked up to meet Craig’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. They locked. Craig gave him a short nod, and even though Tweek felt like he was dying, he also felt kind of proud of himself, too.

After a while, Tweek found he was able to speak. “You know, one of these times I swear I’ll make it through an evening without crying,” he said, earning a smirk from Craig.

“Hey, it was either you who’d crack first or me.”

“You put up a hell of a fight,” Tweek murmured. Silence descended again.

“How about next time we ditch Jimmy’s Ritz?” Craig suggested. “There’s a fair coming to South Park this weekend. Why don’t you and I go? Saturday, if you’re free. No sombre chats, just a nice time.”

Tweek smiled meekly. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Great,” Craig smiled too, and the sight of it set off a spark in Tweek’s stomach. “I’ll swing by and pick you up at eight.” They had arrived outside Tweek’s apartment block now, and they pulled over.

“Okay,” Tweek tried to let out a deep breath, but it came out more of a succession of hiccups, “I’m going to go inside and finish having my panic attack now.”

“Have fun with that, then,” Craig said, and the pair chuckled. Tweek knew that was his queue to exit, but he didn’t, because he caught the other man’s eye again, and this time it was not only in the mirror. They gazed at each other, and Craig leaned closer. For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, Tweek thought maybe… maybe he was about to kiss him. But he didn’t. He only brushed a tear softly away. Still, his hand lingered for just a fraction of a second too long before he pulled back. It felt as if the mark of his palm had been branded onto Tweek’s cheek, leaving him smouldering.

“Goodnight,” Craig said huskily.

“Goodnight,” Tweek echoed breathlessly as he got out the car.

He didn’t wait for Craig to drive off this time, just beelined straight for the building. He raced up the stairs, dug in his pocket for his keys, and undid his many locks as fast as he possibly could. He bolted inside, slammed the door, and pressed his back against it, chest heaving. His apartment was pitch black, deadly quiet. Slowly, he sank down, until he was sitting on the floor, knees to his chest. His hands clasped at his burning cheek where Craig had touched him, fresh tear marks tracking searing lines down his face. He screwed his eyes shut, but the image of Craig looking at him with his soft, serious expression had made an equally permanent imprint on the back of his eyelids. He opened his eyes again and let his head loll back, so that it knocked against the door with a painful jolt. He stared wildly into the shapeless darkness as a sensation came over him that was like hot, rosy pink acid lighting up inside him and beginning to dissolve the lining of his stomach. He knew this feeling. He dreaded this feeling.

Tweek Tweak was just a little bit in love.

He was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Police brutality, War-related trauma; Panic attack;  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

He’d given in to Kyle. 

Stan stared bitterly up at the sky, which was a cold blue-grey and cloudless. The thought ran on repeat inside his head, like a broken record. After a week of stark refusal, Kyle had worn him down, and now he’d given in. A scowl settled on Stan’s brow. He shoved his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket, and his fingers closed around the smooth, sleek metal of his lighter. He ran his thumb up and down the length of it, preoccupied by the track that looped again and again in his brain.

Stan had given in to Kyle. He couldn’t believe it. He grimaced reflexively, as if the thought left a sour taste in his mouth, because it did. He began pacing between two lamp posts, just to give himself something else to do other than pick obsessively over the outcome of recent events. 

He had given in. Stan Marsh never gave into anyone, ever. He was stubborn, both naturally and on principle, because stubborn people always came out on top. Life to him was a waiting game, and whoever could stick it out the longest was the winner. Stan liked to win. So, what the fuck had happened now?

This was rhetorical, of course, because Stan new exactly what the fuck had happened. Kyle had been undeniably right, that was what. It was too much of a risk to directly blackmail Cartman, given the circumstances. Additionally, it was smart to go to Wendy to publish the pictures, because even if she refused to help them, Stan knew in his heart that she wouldn’t rat them out. Wendy was not a spiteful person. She was, however, a stubborn one, enough to give Stan a run for his money. Maybe that was why they’d stayed together for so long.

Stan was deliberately ignoring the other reason he’d given in to Kyle and did not plan on addressing it anytime soon. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, not meaning to say it out loud but doing so anyway. He stopped pacing and leant heavily against one of the lamp posts, chest heaving. Right now, even the act of keeping his eyes open felt like he was Atlas, holding up the sky. He wanted nothing more than to stumble back inside and crawl into bed. He’d not been sleeping well lately, plagued by a reoccurring nightmare that tormented him relentlessly. It was the one where he was back in the on a battlefield, forced to bear witness to a soulless Kyle and Wendy as their flesh slowly fused together. The image haunted him every time he closed his eyes. It had gotten to the point where Stan was having it two, maybe three times a night. Much as he wanted to collapse from exhaustion, he dreaded the return of the vision. Even thinking about it now made him uncomfortable, so he turned instead to tumble down a never-ending spiral of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes.’

Say Wendy did agree to held them. Then what? Cartman would lose his job. Stan would finish his. And Kyle would… Kyle would what? Leave, Stan supposed. Kyle was only sticking around because he wanted to see the Chief gone as much as Token did. This was a one-and-done thing, pro-bono-publico. For the good of the people. Once the gig was up, he’d go back to being a paralegal, and Stan would keep on chugging to the next case, which would probably be about some mind-numbingly obvious affair that he could solve blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back.

Stan had always planned to work as a private detective until he either met his end via the butt of a barrel or the bottom of a bottle. The barrel, when searching for answers someone didn’t want him to find, or the bottle, when trying to forget the answers he already knew. He’d accepted this as his fate as if it were already sealed. And yet, to him now, the prospect of carrying on without Kyle seemed… empty. Bland. Meaningless. It made him want to go find a new bottle to get to the bottom of, then and there. He reached into his jacket for the small silver flask he kept on him for ‘emergencies’. He unscrewed the lid with a flick of the wrist, but when he raised it to his lips, he found the inside to be bone-dry and empty. Damn it. This was just his luck.

Stan wondered if he had time to nip back inside to fill it up, but as if on cue, the familiar old Jalopy rounded the corner. Stan’s heart leapt into his throat and then slithered slimily down to his stomach in a single sickening beat.

The car pulled over and Kyle stuck his head out the window. “Hey!” His breath came out in little puffs of smoke in the cold afternoon air. He was wearing Stan’s hat, ginger curls flaring out in tufts from beneath. Stan had not been wrong: it did look good on him. But Stan was not in the frame of mind to process this, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, adding to the growing pile of other thoughts about Kyle that he chose to ignore.

“Hello,” Stan said hollowly as he got in.

“How are you doing?” Kyle asked, and his emerald eyes sparkled with the pep of someone who was not about to go crawling back on their hands and knees to beg their ex for a favour.

“Take a wild guess,” Stan made no effort to conceal his distaste. Why should he? This was going to be unpleasant, no use masking it with pleasantries.

“Right,” Kyle said awkwardly, “Sorry.” He occupied himself with reversing away from the curb and back onto the street. “Did the photos turn out okay?” He asked.

“Oh yeah,” Stan scowled, “You’ve got a natural talent, a real keen eye. The way you captured the light as Butter’s sucked Cartman off was so artistic. I’d consider pursuing a career in photography with that sort of portfolio.”

Kyle hardened, and an angry flush spread across his freckled face. “God,” he muttered, “I was just asking.”

“Well, what did you want me to say?” Stan threw his hands up in the air. “Yes, they were fine, obviously.”

Kyle sucked his teeth but did not rise to the bait. He was making a conscious effort not to catch Stan’s bad mood, which Stan appeared to be doing everything in his power to spread. “Are you gonna be this much of an asshole the whole evening, or am I just getting special treatment?”

Stan sighed and leant his head against the window. “I don’t know,” he grumbled, “What would you prefer?” His breath fogged up the glass. He traced jerky zigzags in the precipitation with his fingertips.

“I’d prefer that you knock it off, actually,” Kyle sighed. “I get you’re not looking forward to this, Stan, but if you could put on your big boy pants and just play nice for half an hour, it’ll be easier for everyone.”

Stan grumbled something unintelligible and received no response. He flicked his eyes to Kyle but did not shift his head, in an attempt to covertly get a read on him. Kyle’s gaze was fixed firmly on the road, giving Stan a perfect view of his profile. Kye had a thin face and a chin that drew together in a smooth point. His nose was strong and straight, and from this angle, Stan could make out quite clearly the slight flare in Kyle’s top lip. This was not the first time Stan had noticed this, but it seemed particularly distinct tonight, perhaps because right now Kyle was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Stan found himself lingering on Kyle’s lips for just a little too long, and hastily shifted his focus to the brow, instead. Kyle’s eyebrows, thin and light, were drawn together, forehead creased.

“What?” Kyle said without looking at him, “What is it?” Apparently, Stan was not as subtle as he thought he was.

“You shouldn’t frown like that,” Stan said coolly, “You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Don’t give me so much to worry about, then,” Kyle muttered, but he sounded more tired than angry. He relaxed his expression, though Stan suspected this was more out of self-consciousness than care for his future complexion. 

Stan rubbed away the breath on the window with his sleeve and sat up. He decided to relent an inch. “Alright, fine. I’ll be on my best behaviour, just for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Kyle rolled his eyes, “How very gallant of you.”

A stiff, unpleasant silence followed, in which both stewed in their own thoughts. Stan took the time to plot out all the different ways tonight could go wrong. Surprisingly, this did not help his mood. When he could stand the chatter of his own mind no longer, he thought he might give conversation with someone other than himself another shot. He wasn’t sure where to start, but luckily Kyle did.

“Listen, Stan,” he began, “You gotta remember that we’re on the same side, okay? You and I have the same goal.” He still did not turn to look at him. “We’re meant to be a team. So, quit treating me like the enemy.”

Stan’s gut instinct was to spit out a gritty retort, but he controlled himself. Much as he wanted the last word, Kyle was right. As per fucking usual. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I know. I’ll knock it off.” He did not apologise. Stan Marsh did not make a habit of apologising, and he sure as hell was not about to start now. He had his reputation of being a stubborn asshole to uphold, after all, one which he had a habit of forgetting when he was around Kyle. The guy had a way of softening him up, which Stan did not appreciate one bit.

“Damn this traffic,” Kyle murmured to himself. It was four-thirty, prime rush-hour time in South Park, especially since it was a Friday. Though Kyle had done his best to avoid the busiest roads, they had inevitably hit a wall of traffic. The drive from Stan’s to the office of the South Park Gazette’s was supposed to be pretty quick, but it was not shaping up to be that way.

“We should have left later,” Stan glared out the window at the rows of cars surrounding them, like they were stalling just to piss him off. “Waited out the rush.”

“I couldn’t have,” Kyle shrugged, “I’ve got to be at my parent’s place for sundown, it’s Shabbat.”

“Huh?” Stan stared at him blankly. “It’s what now?”

“Oh, Jewish tradition,” Kyle said vaguely.

“What… what sort of tradition?” Stan asked, almost cautiously, because he was afraid it was a stupid question.

Kyle looked kind of surprised that he’d shown any interest at all. “Oh, um. Shabbat is the Jewish day of rest, like Sunday is for Christians. Only for us, it’s Saturdays.”

“But it’s—It’s a Friday today, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah,” Kyle nodded, “But our religious calendar counts days from sunset to sunset, so it starts on Friday evenings, by secular standards.” He glanced out the corner of his eye to check if Stan looked bored, but he was listening. “We light candles,” Kyle continued, “And recite blessings, which you say over challah.”

“Hal-uh,” Stan tried the word out on his tongue. “What’s that? Is that the eight-day candle thing?”

“No, that’s Chanukah,” Kyle corrected him good naturedly, “Challah is a light sort of white bread, in a braded loaf. You tear it off in chunks, cause it’s fluffy.” Kyle motioned with his hands to indicate the size, just shorter than the diameter of the steering wheel, then mimed ripping a piece off. He grinned at Stan, “Oh man, it’s so good, and Mom makes them perfectly every time. I’d wolf down both if I had half the chance, but Ike would wring my neck.”

“Ike?”

“My kid brother.” Kyle had returned his gaze to the road, though it did not take much dedicated driving to navigate the whopping half a foot forward that they moved. “You should join us some time,” Kyle turned back to him, “You could try some of it then.”

Stan couldn’t tell if the idea of eating with Kyle’s family was exciting or nerve-wracking. Still, the natural chef inside Stan was certainly intrigued. “Would that be—um, allowed?” He frowned, “Even though I’m not Jewish?”

Kyle actually laughed at this, but the sound was so nice to hear that Stan didn’t mind too much. “Big Evil Jewish Satan isn’t gonna rise up and damn your soul for all eternity, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he chuckled, “Jewish people don’t believe in Hell, anyway, not in the Christian sense.”

“I just thought—because non-Catholics aren’t allowed to take communion!” Stan justified hastily, “So, um. You know. It might be the same.”

“Right, sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. That was a fair question.” Kyle bowed his head in concession, but still couldn’t completely hide his smile. “Well, I guess the difference is, in Catholicism, the bread becomes the body of Christ, or something like that. But on Shabbat, the challah itself isn’t blessed, there’s just a blessing said over it. Gentiles would be totally fine.” He paused, then added, “A gentile is a non-Jew, by the way.”

“Oh,” Stan said, and smiled slightly, “Well, that’s interesting. Thanks for the explanation.”

Kyle beamed back at him, “No problem. I’ve not met many who bother to ask, actually. Mostly, folk are just kind of awkward about it.”

“Really?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, people get real weird about the whole Jewish thing, I don’t know,” Kyle said. “I don’t tend to mention it unless I have to. It’s just easier that way.” He glanced at his watch again, then back at the snail’s-pace traffic. “Damn, I hope we’re not gonna be late for the appointment. What time did you tell Wendy we’d be there?”

Stan froze.

“Stan,” Kyle said again, as if, somehow, he hadn’t heard him, “What time is she expecting us?” Stan still did not reply, and Kyle turned to gape at him. “Oh my God. Stan, please tell me you called ahead of time to arrange an appointment.”

It was Stan’s turn to avoid eye contact. “Um,” he said, and then, “Uh. Well. Hmm.”

“You’re—you’re kidding, right?”

Stan said nothing.

Kyle slammed his palms on the steering wheel, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Look,” Stan said defensively, “There’s no way Wendy would have agreed to meet if I’d asked. Just showing up is a much more reliable way to—”

“That’s bullshit,” Kyle was not buying it. “I was there in Tweek’s apartment. I know what I saw. That is a woman who is very much not over you, Stan, and she would absolutely jump at the chance to see you again.”

“Christ,” Stan scowled, “You witness one thirty-second interaction and suddenly you’re the expert on our relationship.”

“Don’t pull that line again,” Kyle huffed, “Just because I’m not some big shot detective doesn’t mean I can’t connect the dots.”

Stan wanted so badly to snap back at him, but he was afraid of what he might say. Despite Kyle’s unearned confidence, he really didn’t know anything about what happened between Wendy and him. Their relationship had been long, complicated, and… unconventional, to say the least. The last thing he wanted was for Kyle to learn the truth about what had happened. Although a voice in the back of his mind was screaming to put Kyle in his place by shocking him with the truth, he knew it was for the best that Kyle remained under the belief that he knew pretty much everything: that Stan did not love Wendy, but Wendy still loved Stan.

This was not true in so much that Stan still loved Wendy, very much. If he didn’t, this would be a whole lot easier for him. The issue had not been whether or not he loved her, but in what way. 

Stan and Wendy had gotten together when they were sixteen, an age which seemed a century ago, despite the fact it had only been nine years since then. The pairing seemed unlikely to the untrained eye: the bad boy who sat at the back of the class, etching his initials into the corner of the desk and looking too cool to be there, and the studious smart girl who did her darndest to maintain her position as the best student in every class she took. The two would never have crossed paths were it not for Home Economics class, in which they were seated side by side.

Wendy had said nothing when he slumped in the seat next to her, just stared, making no attempt to hide her shock. Stan was sporting a black leather jacket and had his hair slicked back, his signature look at the time. He was as ruggedly handsome then as he was now, with his piercing gaze and jawline sharp enough to rival diamond. Back then, though, he had an additional air of aloofness about himself that drove all the girls wild. But try as they might, no one had ever managed to charm him. He was a brick wall. And yet, here he was, sitting next to Wendy Testaburger as if it was no big deal. It was.

“Do you want something?” he grunted at her when it became apparent that she would not quit staring until he acknowledged her.

“No,” she muttered, embarrassed, “I just— you don’t seem the sort to take Home Economics.” She glanced around pointedly, to the rest of the entirely female attendees. “I assumed you’d take Shop.”

“I like cooking,” Stan said flatly, “I need to pass this class if I’m gonna get into culinary school.” Stan had chosen to sit next to her deliberately – her reputation preceded her. He did not want to be stuck beside some floozy who dithered or messed around. He had not been prepared, however, when the teacher announced that they would be working in pairs with whomever they were sitting next to for the rest of the year, because the school did not have enough equipment for everybody.

Wendy glowered at him like this was all his doing. “You’d better pull your weight,” she said, quiet enough so that only he would hear her, which only made it all the more intimidating. “Don’t think you can coast with me just to get an easy A.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Stan snarled, “I don’t need to rely on Little Miss Perfect to succeed, actually.”

Wendy was not convinced. “The last kid who tried to lean on me got held back a year,” she said, and it was a warning as much as it was a threat. “Don’t test me.” Stan just smirked but said nothing, which irritated her to no end. In her opinion, Stan had never done anything in his life to warrant the cocky attitude he had, and yet he paraded his sense of superiority like a veteran’s medal.

To Wendy’s utter and complete mortification, Home Economics turned out to be the one subject in which she did not have an ounce of natural talent in. In fact, she seemed eternally cursed. She dropped eggshells into the batter and only mixed them in further when she tried to fish them out. She mixed up teaspoons with tablespoons, leading to a foul-tasting failure of a pancake. She even burnt the bottom of a pan so badly that she had to pay out of pocket for a replacement. Stan’s judgemental gaze only made her more flustered. She continued to do spectacularly badly the next week, too, and the week after that.

He caught her in the hallway after their fourth session, when she was trying to make a quick escape, to avoid the mockery from her peers she would no doubt be subject to if she stuck around. “Wendy!” he barked. “Hey, Wendy, wait up.”

Wendy tried to pretend like she didn’t hear him, but he fell into step beside her anyway.

“I can’t have you fucking up the one grade I actually care about,” he scowled at her.

“I won’t!” Wendy spluttered defensively, horrified to be judged as incompetent for the first time since kindergarten, especially by a guy like Stan. She adjusted her beret self-consciously. “I’ll do better.”

“You’ve been behaving like you’ve never cooked a meal in your entire god damn life,” he said.

Wendy said nothing, just stared at her shoes as they tapped quickly across the linoleum floor.

“Hang on,” Stan stopped in his tracks, and gaping at her in disbelief. Wendy did not faulter, and he had to jog to catch up again. “Have you—have you not? Have you never?”

Wendy’s bright red flush was enough of an answer.

“Oh my God,” Stan cackled. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! Little Miss Perfect can’t tell a soup spoon from a saucepan all because she’s never set foot in a kitchen– that’s priceless. You’re priceless!”

Unsurprisingly, Wendy did not find this nearly as funny. “Look, I’ll get better, okay?” she hissed at him. “I’ll practice over the weekend.”

Stan rolled his eyes, “Yeah, and you’ll probably burn your own house down in the process, given your track record.”

“Of course I won’t,” Wendy said scornfully, though inwardly she was not so sure. By now she had reached the door of her next class – English, a topic in which she excelled in – and was eager to get as far away from Stan and his stupid slick-back hair as quickly as possible.

“Wendy, hey,” Stan caught her arm as she tried to depart. “Look, I’ll help you. Meet me after school by the gates. I’ll walk with you back to yours and teach you some of the basics.”

Wendy narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. “Why mine?”

“Cause,” Stan shrugged, “I’m willing to bet you’ve got a way nicer kitchen than I do. Anyway, I’ll see you later,” he clicked his fingers and shot her a playful pair of finger guns. “Have fun geeking it out in class.” He stalked off before Wendy could produce anything other than an indignant huff.

“Do mine eyes deceive me?” Bebe gasped as Wendy slunk to her neighbouring desk, “Or was that Stan Marsh you were talking to?”

“Not by choice,” Wendy grumbled. “I told you, he’s my partner in Home Economics, remember?”

“I thought you were kidding,” Bebe exclaimed. “I couldn’t actually believe— God, you’re so lucky!” She sighed wistfully, “I would have taken Home Ec if I’d known he’d be in it. So, what, are you two super close now?”

“Ew, no,” Wendy wrinkled her nose. “But, uh— I’m not that experienced with cooking. He wants to come over later to teach me.”

Bebe’s jaw dropped. “No way,” she said. “Oh my god, that’s like, so totally his excuse to like— you know…” Bebe winked at her suggestively. “Get a little closer to you.”

Wendy’s stomach did a gut-wrenching flip. She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “Really? Do you think?” She’d not got that impression from him – it really had seemed to be motivated purely by academia. And yet, Wendy had been known to get the wrong idea before. She’d been told enough times that she was pretty to know it, but every time a boy made a move it was as surprising as it was sickening to her. “Maybe you’re right,” she said hesitantly, “Maybe it is.”

“Trust me,” Bebe hissed confidently, as the teacher arrived and took his place at the chalkboard, “It’s all guys like that are after.”

Wendy had a hard time concentrating for the rest of the lesson, mind wandering anxiously to what might occur later that day. She comforted herself with the reminder that they would be at her house, not his. Safer territory, at least.

Wendy saw him straight away as she left the school building. He was leaning on the railings next to the school gates, smoking a cigarette, signature ‘too cool to be here’ expression on his face. He was good looking, Wendy supposed, though she’d never cared for that sort of thing. She considered trying to slip past him, but he saw her before she got the chance.

“Wendy,” he said, “Hey.” He always greeted her like that. Said her name, like it was a roll call. 

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said coldly, glowering at his cigarette, “It’s not good for you.”

“Really?” Stan said sarcastically, “I had absolutely no idea. I’ll give up the habit immediately.” He finished his smoke and flicked it onto the pavement, putting it out with the heel of his boot. “Do you live far?” 

So they were doing this, then, Wendy thought in bitter resignation. “No,” she said, “Just ten minutes.” They made it to her house quicker than that, actually, because Wendy walked very quickly when she was nervous. The sooner they could start, the sooner they could finish. “So,” she said, as she unlocked her door, “What are we going to make? Not pancakes again, I hope.”

“Just plain ol’ cake,” Stan said, “Chocolate cake, maybe. You like chocolate?”

Wendy did, though for some reason she felt reluctant to admit it. “Yes,” she said warily, as if he might use this information against her.

“Good,” Stan nodded curtly as he took off his shoes and kicked them to the side, “It’s a simple recipe. Should be easy enough, even for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wendy put her hands on her hips. 

“Oh,” Stan said, grinning wickedly, “You know.” He left it that because he knew he’d already got under her skin. 

Wendy decided to make a to do her best not to let him wind her up. That was only what he wanted, and she’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction. “Kitchen’s just through here,” she said breezily, leading him down the hallway.

Stan let out a low whistle when they entered. “Well,” he said, “I was certainly right about one thing. Your kitchen is much swankier than mine.” He perused it as if he were a potential buyer, eying up the black and white checked tiling of the floor, running a finger along the polish marble countertop. “Imagine having access to a place like this and never even using it.”

“I don’t have time to,” Wendy said, “I’m too busy studying.”

“Lucky for you, you get to do both now.” Stan began rooting through her drawers in a quest to find the right ingredients, without looking for permission to do so. “Are your parents home?” he asked with his head in a cupboard.

Wendy stiffened. “Yes,” she said distrustfully, “My dad’s in his office upstairs, probably.”

“Good,” Stan said, and provided no further explanation as to why that was the case.

Wendy lingered awkwardly by the doorway. She wrang her hands, “Do you want to have a look at some of our cookery books?”

“No need,” Stan said as he emerged with a bag of flour. “I’ve got the recipe right here,” he tapped his temple. “I’ve made it enough times before.”

Wendy was actually kind of impressed, but she did her best not to show it. “Well then,” she said instead, “Let’s get this over with.”

Stan was a surprisingly good teacher. Though a little impatient at times, he carefully and clearly guided her through the process, letting her do most of the work, but willingly taking over the mixing when her hand got tired. She watched the muscles in his arm tighten as her stirred the thick batter and wondered, not for the first time, if it should be sparking something within her. Arousal, maybe, or at least some level of attraction. It didn’t, though, and she wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved, for she was apparently the only girl immune to his charm in the entire school. She decided to start on the dishes instead of waste her time fretting over such things.

“No, I’ll do them,” Stan said without turning around, “You come grease the cake tin and then we can pour in the batter and put this in the oven.”

“Is that it?” Wendy frowned, “Is that all?”

“We’ll ice it when it’s cooked and cooled,” Stan said, “But, yeah. Why, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “I guess I thought it would be more… elaborate, or something.”

“Ah,” Stan chuckled. It was a nice sound, a little husky, but genuine. Wendy didn’t think she’d ever heard him laugh before, not in a way that wasn’t sarcastic. “Well, some recipes can be more complex, but I chose this one specifically because of its lack of elaboration. I hope that’s not too disappointing.” 

“No,” Wendy said, “Actually, it’s a bit of a relief.” Stan showed her how to grease the tin with some lard, which she got the hang of quickly. She poured the mixture slowly into the round tin, careful not to spill.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who bakes as tidily as you,” Stan commented. She had put every ingredient back in its place the moment they had finished with it.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said, “No, it’s probably a good thing. You should see my kitchen when I’ve been cooking. You’d think a hurricane had torn through it, with the state it’s in afterwards.” He eyed her from a distance as she slid the cake cautiously inside the preheated oven. “You got an egg timer?” he asked.

“Somewhere, probably,” Wendy peered through the window in the door, “Have a poke around, see if you can find one.” She returned to the oven several times throughout the process of the cake baking, admiring how it rose so. Stan observed this with a knowing smile.

“Satisfying, isn’t it?” he said when at last she took it out, “To see something you create turn out so well.”

“It’s kind of ugly on the top,” Wendy complained, gesturing to the small cracks that ran along it.

“That’s fine,” Stan dismissed, “We’ll cover it up with icing. No one will be any the wiser. But we’ll have to wait for it to cool down first.”

They sat at the kitchen table as the waited, and Wendy was surprised to find that Stan was pretty fun to talk to. He was funny, when he wasn’t trying to seem aloof, and though they fell into very different cliques, they actually had a fair amount in common, in their opinions and perspectives.

“Right,” Stan rose and touched the tip of his finger to the top of the cake, “I reckon that’s cool enough to ice now.”

Wendy stood eagerly.

“Okay, so you’ve got a choice of either white or chocolate icing.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, “There is a right answer.”

“Chocolate,” Wendy said confidently, “Chocolate, obviously.”

“Correct,” Stan grinned. He’d already got out the ingredients, and it didn’t take long for them to whip up the icing.

“Can I try some?” Wendy asked, “Before it goes on the cake?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Stan nodded, getting out two teaspoons, “Sampling is crucial. Gotta make sure it’s fit for consumption, right?” He winked as he handed her one of them.

Wendy scooped a little out the bowl and tried some. “Oh!” Her eyebrows went up, “Oh, that’s pretty good, actually.”

“You’re not a bad cook,” Stan said, “You just needed a little guidance from an expert chef, is all.”

Wendy rolled her eyes, “Yeah, well. Thanks, I guess.”

Stan cocked his head at her. “You’ve got icing on your face, though,” he smirked. “I guess you not a neat baker after all.”

“Really?” Her hands flew to her mouth, “Where?”

“It’s—no, just—Oh, hang on.” Stan stepped forward and gently brushed it off her cheek with his thumb.

Wendy stared up at him apprehensively. She was acutely aware of how close they were. She knew what was going to happen next. “If you’re about to kiss me, then don’t,” she said sharply, “I’m not really interested in that sort of thing.”

Stan stared at her blankly for a second. His eyes searched her face, as if looking for something he feared wasn’t there. “Oh,” he said quietly, and then louder, “Oh, thank God! I was worried you were expecting me to.” He leant against the marble top counter and let out a sigh of relief. “Jesus, I was so worried I was gonna have to.”

This was the last response Wendy was expecting to receive. She predicted indignance, maybe. Disappointment. Disgust. Certainly not relief. “So you’re not?” Wendy said, then amended her question, “You’re not interested in kissing me?”

Stan stared numbly at the tiled floor. “I’m not interested in kissing anyone,” he mumbled.

“Me neither,” Wendy breathed, like if she spoke to loud this reality might shatter. “Kissing, and—and that sort of thing, I find it repulsive. I’ve never wanted to, and I never will.”

“Really?” Stan looked up at her with round, shiny eyes. “I never thought that—I thought that I was the only one. Thought I was broken. There was something wrong with me, that I was sick.”

“Me too,” Wendy said softly. “I still… I don’t know, I’m not against the idea of a relationship, in theory. I think it would be kind of nice, dating, having someone special you could share everything with. But the expectation of, uh, physical intimacy spoiled it. I never thought that it could be a reality for me.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, “I’ve thought about that too, actually. About what it might be like. I don’t know. It’s difficult, with my friends, they’re all so sex obsessed. They’re always banging on about which dolls they’ve been with, it’s really gross to listen to. If they ever found out that I—” Stan stopped. His shoulders grew suddenly stiff, tense. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” He said, and his voice rose, as if only realising what it was that he had admitted. “The guys, at school, if they found out—”

“Of course I won’t tell anyone,” Wendy said quickly. “I won’t tell a soul; I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” Stan nodded, letting out his breath, “Good, yes, right, me neither. I’ll not tell anyone either, I mean.” Neither said anything for a little while. They just looked at each other, cautiously, as if it were the first time they’d met. No longer were they the bad boy and the good girl. They were just them. Stan and Wendy.

“Well,” she said eventually, “It’s nice to know. Nice to know that—that I’m not alone in how I feel.”

“Yeah,” Stan smiled softly, “Yeah, I’m glad.” He turned back to the frosting, to the cake. “We’d better get on with the icing,” he said, “Or it’ll harden and crack, and then it’s impossible to wash the bowl properly. Let’s avoid another kitchen disaster, eh?” There he was again, that old, cool-and-casual persona. Still, though, there was something different about him, Wendy noted, perhaps in the way he held himself, his chest. As if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Wendy felt like it had been lifted off hers, too.

“Yes,” she said, “Let’s get cracking.”

After that day, Stan and Wendy hung out regularly after school, and he taught her many more kitchen tips and tricks. They started spending time with each other in school, too. Rumours quickly began to spread. Did you see that smart chick talking to that edgy guy at lunch? Did you hear they’ve been hanging out outside of school? Who would have thought it, the two of them, together? It’ll never last!

The assumptions about the relationship spread like wildfire, as both were prominent and popular figures at school. When neither did anything to assuage these rumours, it was treated as a confirmation of sorts. There was some disappointment amongst the girls, when they found out Stan was no longer available, and the same amongst the boys in Wendy’s case (though to a lesser degree). And, as the rest of the school assumed that they were dating, so too did Stan and Wendy. They never had a serious conversation about it. There was no official ‘start’ to their relationship. They just slid into place so naturally together that there was no need for any sort of verbal confirmation. It wasn’t just because of their equal disdain for sexual relationships, of course – the pair really did get on well. They brought out the best in each other and quelled the worst. It had just felt so right, right up until the end, where—well, where it didn’t.

Here, now, almost ten years later, Stan thought back on that first day at Wendy’s house with a bitter resentment that accumulates after one has a decade to figure themselves out. He had been so convinced he and Wendy were the same. They were, in regard to personality, but in other ways… less so. To be fair to sixteen-year-old Stan, he really hadn’t been attracted to anyone, not yet. Indeed, his preference for men did not develop until a good deal later, though this had probably been delayed somewhat by his reluctance to admit to himself who he was.

Still, Stan and Wendy’s relationship had been in some ways deeper because of it’s unconventionality. The rigidity of what being in a relationship entailed was softened: if they got on fine without conforming to sexual expectations, why should they care for other norms, too? In truth, they were more than just boyfriend and girlfriend: they were best friends. He supposed, in a way, they had been soul mates. That realisation, one which he’d only come to after they split, hurt him more than anything she’d said to him in their whirlwind arguments that followed the war. Accepting that meant accepting that he did indeed still love her. Stan loved Wendy. He always would. That was why he was so terrified of stepping back into her office today.

“Stan?” the volume of Kyle’s voice startled him, though it was not particularly loud.

Stan realised with a jolt how deeply he’d been dragged into the past and hauled himself back to the present. He’d been working hard to sidestep those memories, and he had planned to keep doing so until he could ease the pain of it with a numbing draught of liquor. He cursed himself, yet again, for not remembering to top up on some before he left. Still, it was probably for the best, anyway. The only thing worse than showing up unannounced at Wendy’s office was doing so when drunk.

“Stan?” Kyle said again.

“Wh… What?” Stan blinked rapidly, in an attempt to ground himself.

“Are you okay?” Kyle asked, and any residual resentment he had faded into gentle concern. “You got all quiet. You looked kind of… sad.”

“I’m fine,” Stan grunted. He decided to stopper his mouth with a cigarette, to avoid letting anything spill out that he’d regret. He felt Kyle’s eyes on him as he struggled with his lighter, and could practically taste the judgement oozing off him. He realised with some alarm that his hands were trembling and steadied them. With some difficulty, he got it lit, rolled down the window, and blew streams of smoke out into the dusk. The nicotine took the edge off things, at least, though not to the extent a drink would.

He could still feel Kyle looking at him, and so reluctantly he turned to meet his gaze. Kyle opened his mouth, and Stan knew he was about to comment on the detrimental effect of smoking tobacco, so he cut him off before he got the chance to. “Don’t,” he said, and it came out more desperate than he meant it to, as if the comment would be enough to tip him over the edge. Maybe it would be.

Kyle looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he mumbled, even though he hadn’t actually said anything. The traffic had picked up its pace, and they were finally cruising at a speed higher than two miles per hour.

“Look,” Stan said quietly, because he couldn’t find the strength to say it at full volume, “Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole to you, I’m really not. I’m just… I’m just really wound up right now. I’ve not talked to Wendy since— Well, not for a mighty long time, not properly.”

“It’s okay,” Kyle said, understandingly. “I get it. This must be really tough; You should feel proud of yourself for going through with it.” Coming from anyone else, Stan would have felt patronised, but there was something about the way Kyle said it that made it clear there was no malice or double meaning: he simply meant what he said. Stan should be proud of himself, and perhaps Kyle was proud of him too.

Stan felt himself softening, but quickly pulled himself back together. Damn that man’s effect on him! “Thanks,” he said gruffly, “But I’ve not made it through yet.”

“You know, I’m not sure I could do it, if I was in your place,” Kyle said. “If it were my ex-girlfriend, well.” He left it at that, ambiguously.

This sparked a flicker of curiosity in Stan. “Really?” he asked, trying to sound uninterested. “How come?”

“Because it would very quickly devolve into a competition of who can scream and shout the loudest,” Kyle said, and a sour expression settled on his face. “And then she’d call me a dirty Jew and I’d storm off.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. “She would? What the hell!”

“That’s how pretty much all our arguments ended, yeah.” Kyle mumbled, and he sounded kind of embarrassed, as if it were him in the wrong, not her.

“Fuck.” Stan felt a strange surge of protectiveness come over him, which he doubted Kyle would appreciate. He seemed like a man who could fight his own battles. “She sounds like a bitch,” he remarked, then realised how lame that sounded.

Kyle laughed hollowly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Stan wanted very much to get to know the half of it, actually, and then the other half, too, but their conversation was cut short by their arrival.

“Well,” Kyle said brightly, as if their previous conversation had never happened, “Here we are. Ready?”

“Nope,” Stan said crisply, and he got out the car. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, put it out with the heel of his boot, and together they made their way inside the Gazette’s office block.

“Shit,” Kyle whispered to him as they went in through the glass turnstile doors. “How do we even know Wendy’s in right now?”

Stan patted him on the back, “Relax, Kyle. Wendy always stays late in the office on Fridays, even if she’s not supposed to, because her articles are due in first thing Saturday morning, and she likes to take her sweet time polishing them off. Now, follow me. Walk like you’re meant to be here.” Stan strolled confidently across the lobby floor, past the reception desk, where the blonde woman behind it was thankfully preoccupied by a system of filing cabinets behind her, and to the elevators set into the back wall. Kyle did his best to appear casual as he followed, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from gawking, just a little.

The lobby of the Gazette was a pretty swanky. Decked out with plush green carpets and crisp white walls and furnished with dark oak coffee tables and chairs. On the walls hung framed editions of varying notoriety, and Kyle longed to linger, and pour over each one, but he held back. Stan pressed the “up” button, and they waited with bated breath for the elevator to be summoned.

“Hey,” a sharp, feminine voice from behind them said, “Where do you think you’re going? Do you have an appointment?”

Stan and Kyle whirled around to see the receptionist glaring at them from behind her desk. With a sinking feeling, Stan realised he recognised her.

“Stan?” She gaped at him. “Stan Marsh?”

“Hi, Bebe,” Stan said sheepishly. “Long time, no see.”

“You’ve got some nerve, showing your face around here!” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What the hell are you even doing here, anyway? You’re not here to harass Wendy, I hope!”

“You know,” Stan stalled, “It’s a funny story, actually. I was just on my way to—” He heard a snappy ‘ding!’ from behind him and stepped effortlessly backwards into the now open elevator, putting a firm hand on Kyle’s shoulder, and guiding him in alongside. “Sorry, Bebe,” he grinned devilishly as he jammed the button marked ‘9,’ “I’ll have to tell you some other time.” The doors slid shut on her furious expression.

The elevator hummed to life, beginning its ascension with a clunk. Stan’s stomach flipped as they lurched upwards.

“Stan,” Kyle was looking at him, eyes sparkling, “That was… actually pretty smooth. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Stan said, though he didn’t feel very suave, just ill, “I’ve been known to do that from time to time. Be smooth.” A minor victory was not enough to quell the anxiety that was bubbling in his gut. He caught sight of himself in the mirrored walls and grimaced, before quickly taking the opportunity to smooth down his hair and his shirt. He wondered briefly if he should have slicked back his hair, for old times’ sake, then decided firmly that would have been a bad idea. The past was being dredged up enough already. 

The elevator came to a stop, but Stan’s stomach did not get the memo in time: it continued to slither up into his throat right up until the doors slid open, upon which it slammed back into place with a lurch.

“How do you know she’s still got the same office?” Kyle said in a low voice to him as they stepped out into the hallway of the fourteenth floor. The corridor was void of staff, and the acoustics were muffled, so that anything above a whisper seemed inappropriate. Besides, they were not looking to attract any unwanted attention: the incident with the secretary downstairs had been quite enough. “Isn’t it possible she’s moved rooms?” 

“I don’t know for sure, actually,” Stan admitted, “But it’s worth a try. Beats going back downstairs to ask Bebe, anyway. Something tells me she wouldn’t be too willing to help us.”

“She knew you, then?” Kyle asked. “She knew about you and Wendy? Your history?”

“Bebe was an old school friend of hers,” Stan explained. “I could never tell if she disliked me or liked me just a little too much. I guess she just answered my question.”

Kyle looked like he had about a dozen other questions along the same lines, but he bit them back, which Stan appreciated. He was not in the mood for another flashback.

They reached the office marked N19, at the very end of the hallway. Stan looked desperately at Kyle, as if he might agree to backing out.

“You do the honours,” Kyle said instead, which was exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

“Well then,” Stan muttered, “Here goes nothing.” He swallowed down the bile, which was rising steadily in his throat, and balled up his fist. He was about to knock when Kyle caught his arm.

“Actually, wait,” he said quietly. “Before you do this, I just want to say—Um, well, I mean—that is—” Apparently Kyle had as little clue of what he was trying to say as Stan did. Kyle realised he was still clutching Stan’s wrist in his hand. He let it drop quickly, and a blush bloomed across his face like the petals of a rose unfolding. He was always doing that. Blushing. It was real cute, which only made Stan more nervous. “N-never mind,” Kyle mumbled, “Go ahead.”

Stan knocked.

There was the sound of rustling papers from inside, then a familiar voice. “Come in!” Well, that answered another of question Stan’s: Wendy still occupied the same office.

Stan and Kyle exchanged apprehensive glances. Though every fibre of his being was screaming in protest, Stan twisted the shiny gold doorknob and swung the door open. He called upon the nonchalant, casual, and aloof attitude he’d had when he was young, which he now only returned to for special occasions. He stepped inside.

The room was exactly as he’d remembered it. Dark oak bookshelves and filing cabinets lined the walls, of the same type of wood as the furniture on the ground floor. Papers and folders were shelved haphazardly and in no obvious order. The wall behind Wendy was almost entirely glass, but the navy-blue blinds were drawn, so that the view of the pretty city lights far below was obscured. Wendy’s dark head was bent low over her large wooden desk, strewn with article clippings, photos and knickknacks. A typewriter sat in the centre. Wendy was rifling through a pile of papers, muttering to herself.

“Where the hell is page three?” She mumbled, and then addressed her visitors without looking up. “I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment. Are you after me specifically, or can you find one of the other reporters instead?” 

“You,” Stan said. The tone was sharp. Hard. Unfeeling. Good, he thought, it was as it should be. “Specifically you.”

Wendy’s head snapped up so fast he heard her neck crack. She stared at him with big, glassy eyes, as if he were a ghost. “Stan,” she said, and gulped.

“Wendy,” Stan nodded curtly, as if greeting an acquaintance, not an ex-lover of seven years. “Hey.”

“What—what are you doing here?” She said shakily, then noticed Kyle, who was hanging back awkwardly at the doorway, and amended her question, “Um, you two.”

Stan decided if he had to do this, he would do this with as little emotion as possible. In and out. Quick and easy. The sooner they could start, the sooner they could finish. “We’re here on a strictly professional basis,” he reassured her.

“Oh,” Wendy said, and he couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. Well,” she gestured to the two plush leather seats in front of her desk, “Sit down, then.”

They sat, Stan stiffly, Kyle perching uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, as if he might leap up at any time.

“How can I help you?” Her moony expression was gone. Each feature was set in a deliberate, careful state of indifference, of neutrality. It broke Stan’s heart to see.

“We’ve got some photos,” Stan said flatly, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out a small brown envelope. “An incriminating collection, to do with the Chief of the South Park Police Department, Eric Cartman. I thought that you might—” he stumbled his words for a second, but quickly regained his footing. “We thought you may be interested in publishing them.”

Wendy raised a thin dark eyebrow. “Well,” she said, “I’d have to see them to determine that.” She held out a hand expectantly.

Stan hesitated. “Uh, I ought to warn you,” he said, “These photos, they’re very… explicit.” He couldn’t bring himself to say more than that, but he felt she deserved a fair heads-up. It was not the sort of sight someone ought to see without being prepared.

“Righty-ho,” she plucked the envelope from Stan’s hand without any sign of caution. She hooked a delicate finger under the flap and flipped it open, sliding out the photos. She went through them carefully, and all the while not one muscle moved of her face moved. “Well,” she said eventually, once she’d gone through them all, and tucked them neatly back in to the envelope, “These are certainly something.” She set them it on the desk in front of her. “I shan’t ask how why or how specifically you acquired pictures like these, of course,” she smiled tightly at Stan, “When it comes to sources, we journalists have a strict moral code.”

Stan had a feeling that this was somehow a pointed jab at him and his past misgivings, but it was too indirect to protest. “We appreciate that,” he said instead.

Wendy stared at him blankly for a second. Her eyes searched his face, as if looking for something she feared wasn’t there. Then, her shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh. “I can’t do it this way, Stan,” she shook her head. She didn’t sound angry or even sad, just tired. “I hate this charade of formalities.”

Stan was ticked off by this. If he’d known they were going to break the rules of polite society, he would have been the one to do it first. “Fine,” he said shortly, “Okay, fine, doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Wendy tutted, as if this were not the response she had been after. “Perhaps it would be better if we talked in private,” she said, “Just you and I.” She glanced meaningfully at Kyle.

“That won’t be necessary,” Stan said firmly, “Like I said, this is strictly a business interest only. Kyle is my partner. Whatever you want to say to me, you can in front of him.”

Kyle would have felt pleased by being referred to as Stan’s partner, were it not for the bone-chilling glare each shot him. He shifted in his seat and felt he should say something to get things back on track. “I presume you’ve got questions, about the context of these photos?”

Wendy stared at the two for just a moment more, then nodded slowly, in resignation. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I do. Hang on, let me find—” She ducked down to open the bottom draw of her desk. There was the sound of rummaging, and then, “Ah, here we are.” She emerged, brandishing a reporter’s notebook, small enough to be held in just one palm. She thumbed through the pages until she reached a blank side, then picked up one of the many pens which grazed nomadically across the sprawling plains of her desktop. She took the cap off with her teeth. “Okay,” she said, full journalist mode active. “Firstly, where and where were these taken?”

“Thursday, last week, shortly before midnight,” Kyle said, as Stan sulked silently in his seat, “At the motel on Hinde Street. You know it?”

“I’m not familiar, no,” Wendy said as she scrawled notes. 

Kyle felt stupid for asking – of course she didn’t know it. She was obviously not the kind of woman to be a regular.

“What else can you tell me about the context of this… event?” she asked.

“The man with Cart an is a prostitute,” Kyle said, and Wendy gave a hum like she was looking for more than that. “But, uh, he’s chosen to remain nameless.”

“He requested that, did he?” Wendy peered at him with eagle eyes, and Kyle kicked himself for such a slip up. “Have you talked to him, then?”

Kyle squirmed and fumbled for a response, but Stan swooped in.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is an expose on the Chief, not some whore.”

Kyle was a kind of shocked to hear Stan talk about Butters that way. He knew that technically, yes, Butters was a whore, and a queer one at that, but that word seemed loaded with a kind of malice that he’d not expected from the PI. Before, he’d treated Kenny and Butters with a kind of… begrudging respect, which had seemed strange at first, but now Kyle felt uncomfortable with it any other way. They were people, too, no matter how unconventional their careers might be.

“I was only asking because I was wondering if there was an opportunity for a potential interview,” Wendy said, then added, “Anonymously, of course. But it would be great to get a first-hand account.” She observed Stan’s unwavering scowl and put her hands up, “Okay, never mind, never mind.” She added a few more notes to her pad. “Well, the Chief of Police is a homosexual,” she mused, and Kyle couldn’t tell if there was a note of disgust in her voice, or if it was simply surprise. “Who would have guessed?”

“He’s not,” Kyle corrected, “Well, not exactly.”

Wendy cocked her head at him, “Oh?”

“Well, he—uh, he’s attracted to women, too. Men and women. I, um, don’t know what that would make him, exactly.”

“Interesting,” Wendy said as she added to her notes, then looked back at Kyle. “Oh, and bisexual. I believe the term is bisexual.”

Kyle stared at her in unmasked shock. “Wh-what?”

“I’ve read Kinsey’s studies on the topic,” Wendy shrugged, “His book, ‘Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male,’ was published just this year. A real eye-opening read,” she said. “I recommend it.” She did not look at Stan at all when she said this, only at Kyle, but he was still not sure who this comment was meant to relate to. 

Kyle made a note to buy a copy himself, then felt appalled for even considering it. What on earth would he want with a book like that? Still, he did not scrap the possibility of doing so all together. Perhaps tomorrow, he could go down to—

“Look, does it matter what label you stick on him?” Stan’s sharp words pierced through Kyle’s train of thought like an arrow. “Either way, it’s not something a man in his line of work should be.”

Wendy ignored Stan’s and his short temper. “Mr Broflovski,” she addressed Kyle, “How is it that you came to be aware of Mr Cartman’s preferences?” She leant forward in her seat slightly. “Do you know him personally?”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t ask how we came to know these things,” Stan growled, as Kyle turned red from the neck up. “What happened to that high and mighty journalist’s code of yours?”

“I was just curious, that’s all,” Wendy said lightly. She seemed to be deliberately remaining as relaxed and casual as possible, which was only serving to wind Stan up more. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

“No,” Stan said guardedly, “I think that’s about it.”

Wendy reviewed her notes, licking her finger and rifling back through her pages. “Well,” she said, “This is certainly a scandal alright. I’d ruffle quite a few feathers in the office if I published it.”

“But you will,” Kyle said quickly, “You will publish it, won’t you?”

Wendy sighed. “Listen, boys,” she said, and Kyle noticed that this belittling term made Stan’s chest puff out in indignation. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you when I tell you that there are bound to be quite a few members of staff here who would be reluctant to let this story see the light of day. Mr Cartman has quite a few friends in high up places, and bootlickers in lower ones. I’d be putting my neck out on the line by even suggesting it.”

Stan crossed his arms and glared at Kyle. “I told you,” he said angrily, “I told you she wouldn’t do it!”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Wendy wagged a disapproving finger at him, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Stan glared at her. “Fine. How much do you want for it?” he asked begrudgingly.

“Oh, no,” Wendy chuckled, “No, I don’t want money.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you after then?”

Wendy sat back in her chair and folded her arms in a perfect mirror image of Stan. “I want an apology.”

There was a brief, excruciating silence.

“Excuse me?” Stan said in utter disbelief. “You want a— Fucking pardon?”

“An apology,” Wendy said plainly, “For how things ended.” She looked to Kyle, then added, “I’m sure you won’t mind doing it in front of Mr Broflovski, either. He is your partner, after all. Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of him.”

Kyle could practically see the smoke billowing out of Stan’s ears. “Stan?” he asked cautiously, “Are you, going to, um…”

Stan stood up so abruptly and so violently that his empty chair teetered on the brink of falling over. He slammed his hands down on the desk. “No,” he spat viciously, “I won’t apologise. I never will.”

Wendy rolled her eyes, “Of course you won’t. You just never can admit when you’re wrong, can you?”

“God, you always think you know everything about me! But you don’t,” Stan snarled, “You don’t know shit. You want to know the real reason why I won’t apologise?”

“Oh, do tell,” she gestured in an open motion sarcastically, “Go ahead, please. I’m on the edge of my seat.” 

“I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not,” he thundered. “I don’t regret it at all. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. No, actually, I would— I’d enjoy it more the second time round!”

Wendy let out a sound that was halfway between a squawk and a scream. “You bastard!” She stood too, now, “You complete fucking bastard! How dare you? How dare you have to audacity, the nerve to—to—” She cut herself off with a short, frustrated shriek, and swept her arms about her, sending pages flying off her desk and into the air in disarray. “You’re unbelievable!”

Stan snatched up the brown paper envelope from the desk, knocking more things off the top, probably on purpose. “I’m done here,” he growled. “Thanks for nothing.” He turned on his heels and stalked off without so much of a nod in Kyle’s direction.

Kyle stared in open-mouther horror between Wendy and the door, which was still swinging on its hinges.

Wendy sat down heavily in her seat. Her shoulders rose and fell in rapid, quick succession. She didn’t burst into tears, as Kyle had expected, only put a hand over her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Dammit,” she murmured. “Damn him. I can’t believe he got a rise out of me.”

Kyle didn’t know what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of. He rose and began gathering up the papers that had been flung out of order (not that they had been in any particular order to begin with). He collected them all, and arranged them in a neat pile, setting them cautiously in front of Wendy.

She raised her head to look up at him. “Thank you, Mr Broflovski,” she said in a small voice.

“Kyle. Call me Kyle.” He sat back down, ill at ease.

“Well then,” she offered him a weary smile, “Thank you, Kyle.” She looked to the door, and then back at him, with an expression that either could have been contempt, or pity. “Aren’t you going to chase after Stan, then?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said in genuine bewilderment, “I, um—should I?”

Wendy shrugged, “I mean, that’s what he wants you to do.”

“It is?” Kyle had just assumed Stan needed some space – or maybe he had only hoped that. Enraged Stan was quite scary, actually, and he was not eager to subject himself to his wrath.

Wendy sighed. “Stan acts all cold and distant, but the reality is he can’t go five minutes without attention. He storms off when things aren’t going his way, but he always hopes someone will follow to help sooth that fragile little ego of his.”

“Oh,” Kyle said, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “Well, um…” He stood and took a few tentative steps towards the door.

“I didn’t say you should, though,” Wendy said, and Kyle turned to back to glare at her.

“Well, either should I leave, or I shouldn’t!” he said desperately, “So which is it?”

Wendy didn’t answer. She just shook her head sadly, and even though her gaze was directed to where he stood, Kyle felt as if she were looking right through him. He turned around to check, but there was nothing of note behind him. Just filing cabinets and the closed door.

“Wendy?” he asked again.

“Be careful with him, Kyle,” Wendy said, so quietly. “Stan… he’s addictive. It’s so easy to get addicted to him. Don’t get—” her voice broke off. She took a short breath, in and out. “Don’t get dependent on him. Don’t put yourself through that.” She shook her head again. “You don’t deserve that.”

Kyle just stared at her. “Uh… Thanks for the advice,” he murmured warily. Part of him felt the urge to defend Stan, but at the same time, Stan’s explosion – well, closer to a tantrum – was difficult to justify. He had a sinking feeling that he was missing something very big and very important, but he knew he would never be brave enough to ask either one of them, for fear they should turn against him, too.

Wendy cleared her throat and the focus to her eyes returned. “Now go,” she waved him away with a dismissive flick of the wrist, “I have to edit a one-thousand-word article on the underfunding in the South Park morgue industry by tomorrow.” Her head bent back over her work. 

“Right, well, good luck,” Kyle said. He opened the door but hesitated and turned back. “Uh… Sorry,” he added vaguely. He felt he should say more, but couldn’t articulate anything else, so just said it again. “Sorry.” He left.

Wendy did not look up. She did not shift her posture again until she heard the soft click of the door closing, and only then, when she was confident that she was alone again, did she finally collapse. Big, fat tears rolled down her cheek and onto the top page in front of her as her shoulders heaved with silent sobs. The dots of water were absorbed quickly, and where it hit, the ink ran. 

She did not know how long she cried for. Too long, anyways. She did not have the time for this. Damn Stan, and his impeccably inconvenient timing. 

There was a soft, cautious nock at the door, and for one brief moment, Wendy wondered if Stan had come back. The muffled but distinctly female voice from behind it soon dismissed this dread. 

“Wendy?”

Wendy didn’t respond. She didn’t have the strength to.

“Wendy, are you alright?” Another short pause. 

Wendy sighed and sat up, blinking rapidly. She dabbed at the bottom of her eyes with her sleeve in an attempt to avoid smearing her mascara, though it was a bit too late for that. It would not do to broadcast her break down to the rest of the office, she thought to herself.

“I’m coming in, okay?” The door swung open and Bebe tiptoed in. 

The receptionist looked at Wendy with such compassion in her expression that it snapped something inside her. Wendy clasped a hand over her mouth to choke back a sob.

“Oh, Wendy!” Bebe came to her, hauled her to her feet and flung her arms around her in a tight hug. Wendy melted into her embracd. It felt so good to have the support of a friend. That only made her sob harder, but at least she had a shoulder to cry into now. 

“I’m so sorry,” Bebe said, “I should have stopped him. I tried to, but—”

“No,” Wendy took in a shuddery breath and pulled herself together, “No, it’s alright. I think—in a way, I needed that. I needed to see him.”

“For closure?”

“No,” Wendy mumbled, stepping away. “Well, yes and no. It’s more like… I don’t know, I think I had this big idea in my head that when we finally met again, he would have changed. Matured. He’d give this grand speech about how sorry he was that he messed up, and that he’d do anything to have me back. Or—or at least he’d want to be friends again, to make amends. I think I always knew that wouldn’t be the case, really. I just didn’t want to believe it. I simply went on hoping, for two god damn years. Now I don’t have to hope anymore.”

“That must be so hard,” Bebe squeezed her arm.

“Actually,” Wendy breathed, “It’s kind of a relief. Knowing I’ll never get real closure from him is a sort of closure in and of itself.” Wendy sat back down at her desk chair, “Anyway, shouldn’t you be heading home for the day?”

“I wanted to hang around until after he left, to make sure you were alright,” Bebe shrugged.

“Oh,” Wendy said, “Thank you.”

“What did he and his ginger friend even want, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing,” Wendy said lightly. “Nothing really.”

Bebe took this as more of a sign that Wendy didn’t want to talk about it than the truth. “Well,” she said, “I’d best be getting off. I’m going out to dinner with Clyde again this evening. Will you be alright here by yourself?” She did not try to encourage Wendy to take the rest of the day off. She knew her friend too well for that.

“I’ll be alright,” Wendy said, then asked carefully, “How is Clyde, by the way?”

“Ugh, who knows?” Bebe rolled her eyes. “I just want to skip past all these awkward first few dates with him and get to the part where he’s actually open and honest with me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, right now, we’re still in the stages where he’s acting like the man that he thinks I want him to be, not the man that he actually is. You know, all tough and manly and puffed up chest. It means I’m obligated to follow along too, act all flirty and ditzy and girlish. It’s a waste of time, if you ask me,” Bebe pulled a face, “But it’s an unavoidable part of courtship, I suppose.”

Wendy let out a sympathetic “Hmm,” though she did not agree with the sentiment.

“He seemed kind of off, last time, though,” Bebe frowned. “He came straight from work, and he was so—so tense. So wound up. I tried to figure out what was wrong, but he got all cagey. I think his boss is giving him a hard time at the moment.”

Wendy absorbed this information like a sponge. “That would be Cartman, right?”

“Huh?”

“Cartman’s his boss?”

“Oh,” Bebe said, “Yeah, I think that was the name he mentioned. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Wendy said lightly. “Anyway, I hope things work out between you and him.”

“Me too,” Bebe said, “He’s really sweet, when he’s not trying to act like he’s not. Cute, too, especially in that uniform of his. Anyway, I’d better be going. I need time to pop home and freshen up before I see him.” She made for the door, but paused at the exit, “Wendy?”

“Uh-huh?”

Bebe looked a little hesitant to ask her question, but she did so anyway. “Did you ever find out which skank Stan cheated on you with?” Wendy stared blankly at her, and Bebe interpreted that as a no, and was quick to back pedal. “Well, anyway, she and him deserve each other,” she said hastily, with contempt. “Anyway, goodnight!” She ducked out the room.

“Goodnight! Phone me later, let me know how it went with Clyde,” Wendy called after her.

“Will do!”

With Bebe gone, Wendy returned her attention to her work. She stared numbly down at the tearstained page in front of her, then started when she realised what it was. “Oh,” she sniffed, and she smiled to herself. “Found page three.”

\---

Kyle located Stan in the parking lot, leaning against the old jalopy. He clutched a cigarette in one hand, and a lighter in the other. Kyle watched his gloved finger slip over the wheel as he struggled to spark a flame. He was shaking, and he looked like he might have been crying.

Wordlessly, Kyle took the lighter and cigarette from Stan.

“I can do it myself,” Stan grunted as Kyle lit it.

“You’ve done a pretty fine job demonstrating that’s not the case,” Kyle said as he handed it back. He unlocked the car and got in the driver’s seat, then motioned for Stan to get in, too.

Stan did so, gazing watchfully at Kyle as if expecting to be ambushed with a million invasive questions. Kyle however, said nothing. He just started the car and did not seem to let go of his breath fully until they were back on the road. The traffic had cleared up, for the most part, and though Kyle did not clarify where he was going, it was obvious by the route he was taking that he was driving Stan home.

Stan flicked his spent cigarette out the window and went for another. He pulled his gloves off with his teeth, but thanks to the resilient tremors in his hands he still could not light the damn thing. He growled in frustration and thrust it at Kyle.

Since they had reached a red light, Kyle took his hands off the wheel to do so, though he looked like he wasn’t happy with enabling Stan’s bad habit. He handed it back, and at last he spoke. “Stan, back there—”

Stan let out a huff as if already predicting what was coming.

“No, Stan, stop. Just listen to what I’m going to say, okay? Don’t act like you already know – because you don’t.”

Stan sat back in his seat in resignation, drawing breath through his cigarette. “Fine. Go on.”

Kyle sucked his teeth. “I’m not going to ask what happened back there. I know you wouldn’t tell me anyway. I’m not gonna pretend, however, that it was in anything less that embarrassing to witness. I’m appalled by how quickly things fell apart, turned to shambles. Now, we’re back to square one, and we’re either gonna have to risk our lives by using the photos as blackmail directly, or concede that we’ve wasted a lot of time and a lot of money acquiring pictures that we can’t even do anything with. I don’t like either of those options, not one bit. I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

“You knew what you were signing up for,” Stan began, “You knew there’d be risks—”

“Don’t give me that shit, man,” Kyle snapped. “This is all on you.” But they both knew by now that Stan would never be able to admit that.

Not one word was uttered for the rest of the journey. The air in the car felt thick and heavy and suffocating. Kyle pulled up outside Stan’s apartment building, but neither moved. They both just sat there, staring straight ahead.

“Are you really that angry at me?” Stan asked eventually, and his voice was smaller than expected, like a cautious child’s. “Like, irreparably so?”

“I—I don’t know. It’s not that simple.” Kyle traced his finger around the circumference of the steering wheel and didn’t look up. “I’m not mad, just… disappointed.”

“That’s worse,” Stan said, tone strained, “You know that’s worse.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Kyle threw his hands in the air, finally turning to him, “That I’m happy about the way things went down?”

“No, I just—I don’t know. Never mind.” Stan opened the door, got out, and slammed it as loud as he could. He began to stalk away, then stopped. He could not leave it like this. With anyone else, he would be done, over it, but it wasn’t just anyone. It was Kyle.

Damn that man’s effect on him.

Stan returned reluctantly to the car. He opened the door and stuck his head back in. “Look, I’ll think of something, okay? I’ll figure it out. I’ll call you about it on Monday.”

“Fine,” Kyle said wearily, “Yeah, okay, fine.”

Stan sighed. He looked like he wanted to say everything and nothing. Torn between the two, he simply said, “Enjoy Shabbat.”

“Shabbat Shalom,” Kyle corrected.

“What?”

“That’s what you say. ‘Shabbat Shalom.’ It means Sabbath of Peace, or something. Like, have a peaceful Shabbat.”

“Oh,” Stan said. “Well. Shabbat Shalom.” And at that, he left.

All alone now, Kyle stared glumly at the horizon, of which the bottom of the sun was beginning to tuck itself behind. “Well would you look at that,” he mused bitterly to himself. “My day of rest has officially begun.” He certainly did not feel at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF - that was such a headache to edit. Still, though, we're officially a quarter of the way done! Hip-hip, hooray!
> 
> I had a lot of fun researching Shabbat for this chapter. I myself am a secular Jew, so I don't actually know a whole lot about my culture or heritage. This was a good opportunity for me to take the time to learn! If any of you reading are Jewish and have spotted any inaccuracies/missing bits, do let me know :)
> 
> (Also, you seriously should try challah. It's delightful.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone back and done a little retconning on the heights of characters in previous chapters (specifically Butters (5”3) and Tweek (5”5)), because it turned out that the friends I’d been using as a height reference in my head were just… entirely different heights than I’d thought? I’m quite short so I guess that warped my perception of reality to the point where I just assumed everyone was taller than they actually were lmao. It’s not all that important to the story but thought I’d give a heads up anyway.
> 
> Right, on to the part you’re actually here for…

After much internal debate, Tweek had made the decision to take the time to work as many tangles as possible. This took a lot longer than he expected – a full forty-five minutes with his head over the bath. He drowned his blond hair in as much conditioner as it took to work a wide-toothed comb through the knots, which turned out to be an awfully large amount. It was an unpleasant and uncomfortable experience, and as it progressed, he began to regret even doing it at all. His hair was not easily tamed, and the tangles weren’t going out without a fight. But he’d started, so he finished.

He could not remember the last time he’d had the motivation to take care of himself like this. Normally, the idea of even glancing in a mirror filled him with a sickening sense of dread, for fear of who he might see looking back at him. Before the war, Tweek’s body had been a pleasant sort of chubby shape. His amber brown eyes had been bright and sparkling. His cheeks, full and dimpled with a permanent beaming smile. In the summer, his hair used to bleach from strawberry to an almost platinum blond, and cheerful freckles would spring up all across his face. That never happened anymore, though, because he did not leave the house often enough for the sun to grace his appearance.

After the war, he had changed. Primarily, he’d lost a lot of weight, to the point where he was fragile and frail looking. His previously cheerful face had become sickly: sallow cheeks and skin so pale that under certain lights it appeared greenish. Even his posture had changed – his shoulders were generally either slumped or tensed up, and his hands were often clutched in fists by his side or to his chest in a defensive gesture. The other reason he was averse to his reflection was that watching himself tick was a surreal experience. He was aware he did this, of course, but witnessing the twitches that wracked his frame was still jarring.

All in all, Tweek did not like the man in the mirror. His reflection presented a tapestry of how much he’d changed. This was why the looking glass in by his bed had been covered with a sheet, and why the one hanging above his bathroom sink taken down and hidden away. 

It had been Wendy who’d suggested he do this. She was always able to produce rational and practical solutions to his problems. This was not always appreciated, given that many of the worries in question were not rooted in reason.

“So you’re freaked out by your reflection?” she asked.

“That’s not it,” he said, “I’m not afraid some bogey-man is gonna leap out at me from behind the glass.”

“So what is it, then?”

“I just… I don’t like what I see. I don’t know. It just doesn’t match up with the picture in my head. It’s weird.”

Wendy considered this seriously. “So, don’t look then.”

Tweek rolled his eyes, “It’s not that simple.”

“Why can’t it be? Just cover up the mirrors in your apartment. Take away that trigger.”

Tweek hadn’t thought of this before. He had been half expecting for her to suggest that he stared at his reflection more, or something sickening like that. He liked Wendy’s actual solution better. 

The downside of hiding the mirrors, however, was that without any reflection for reference, he sometimes did his shirt up wrong. This was also why his unkempt hair always gave the impression that he’d just been caught in a freak tornado – he could not see it to fix it.

But after spending such a long time working out knots and tangles, Tweek decided that just this once he would brave a peek, to see how successful he’d been. He made his way timidly to the obscured full-length mirror, as if at any moment it might leap off the wall and attack him. He halted in front of it, and his fingers twitched just milometers from the surface of the sheet overtop. He hesitated, then in one quick jerk, pulled it away, to reveal the horror that lurked behind.

The horror was… not that horrible, actually. In fact, it was pleasantly surprising. He looked healthier than the last time he’d seen himself, and he’d cleaned up nicely, too. The olive-green collar poking out from beneath his chestnut brown sweater suited him well, as did the bashful little smile on his face as he took in his reflection. 

Most notable of all, though, was his hair. It rolled from his scalp in easy waves and stuck up in little wispy tufts, like cornsilk. Tweek slowly lifted a hand and ran his fingers through it. They glided through the locks like a knife through butter. It was so soft. “Oh,” he murmured, “Wow.” He just stood there, touching it. Ruffling it up, smoothing it down, experimenting until he found a style he liked.

He jumped at a short honk from outside and went to his bedroom window to see what it was. He cupped his hands to the glass and peered down at the street below. There was Craig’s car. Tweek glanced quickly at his watch – it was only 1952, eight minutes before he was supposed be here. Tweek berated himself for operating, as always, under the assumption that other people timed their lives as precisely as he did.

He threw up the sash and stuck his head out. He waved at Craig’s car, and called out, “I’ll just be a minute!” He drew back inside, then realised with a jolt of alarm how foolish that had been. Anyone walking by could have heard that, and now they’d know that he was about to leave the house empty and defenceless – well, aside from his many, many locks. They could break in at any time this evening if they felt like it. He knew it may not be likely, but it was possible.

Tweek anxiously imagined the faceless intruder as he began lacing up his boots. He momentarily considered cancelling his plans with Craig, just to ensure the apartment would remain protected, but decided against it. He was waiting for him out there, too late now. Tweek shrugged on his army-green jacket and wrapped a black fringed scarf about his neck, before reluctantly abandoning his home. 

His nervous energy meant he shot down the stairs like a bullet, as if he might come into contact with the intruder if he lingered. Unsurprisingly, he did not, but his pace meant he arrived at the car out of breath. “Hello,” Tweek panted as he got in.

Craig did not offer the customary greeting in return. He just stared at him. “Tweek,” he said in disbelief, “Your hair.”

Tweek’s hands flew to his head self-consciously. “Yeah. I, um, I combed it,” he said warily. “Does it—does it look bad?”

“No, no!” Craig reassured him, “No it looks nice. It looks really nice.” He reached out a hand, as if to touch it, then paused. “May I…?”

Tweek nodded tentatively. He held his breath as Craig gently brushed away a curl that had fallen over Tweek’s forehead. 

“It’s soft,” he murmured.

Tweek felt a shower of tingles from where Craig had touched him rain down and set fireworks alight within. Without thinking, he shifted his head slightly, so that Craig’s hand was guided deeper through his hair. Craig did not seem to mind. He ruffled his fingers through it, captivated, as if it were made from the gold Rumpelstiltskin span from hay.

“Really soft,” he said again, then returned to the wheel as if that interaction had been completely normal. “Anyways, let get going.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Tweek did his best to maintain the appearance of a man who was not absolutely freaking out internally. What the fuck was that? He wondered wildly. What the hell just happened? He felt almost giddy with the thrill of Craig’s touch, and was thankful he was already sitting down, or else he might have keeled right over.

“Have you been to a fairground before?” Craig asked, and the initiation of voice was as deep and monotonous as it often was. Apparently, he had not been even remotely flustered by the encounter.

“I have,” Tweek said, deciding to match Craig in acting like nothing had happened. “But not for a long time, not since before the war. I must have been—oh, seventeen, maybe?” He stopped to perform some mental arithmetic, a skill which did not come easily to him. “1940… eight years ago… Yeah, seventeen, that’s right. I went with Clyde.”

“Clyde?” Craig said in surprise, then nodded. “Oh, that’s right. You and he are friends, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Tweek nodded, “We went to school together.” He gazed out the window and began constructing a mental map of where and when they turned just in case he had to figure out how to get home by himself. Tweek was not confident he could make it through the evening without embarrassing himself.

“What was Clyde like?” Craig asked, “At school, I mean.”

Tweek thought this over. “I don’t know,” he said. “Well, the same, in a lot of ways. I guess he was more naïve back then – but wasn’t everyone?”

“Sure,” Craig said, “Maybe. Depends what you mean by naïve.”

“Well, maybe that’s not the right word. Maybe—maybe too trusting, or, or gullible. He was too easy to trick, which meant he was too easy to pick on. I think he just wanted to believe that all the bullies were good people, deep down. That unearned faith meant they could always pull one over on him.”

“I can imagine that,” Craig said, “He’s still got a sense of, ah, childish wonder about himself now, a little. I think he just does a better job of controlling it.”

“Mm,” Tweek said, but he felt it was not that Clyde controlled it, but that he hid it. 

Tweek had met with Clyde last Thursday, for a drink, one on one. It had felt very different from the previous time they’d met, in a group with the other officers. Among his colleagues, Clyde maintained an outward appearance of confidence and joviality, but with an underlying air of authority. He and his partner Craig were pretty high up on the chain of command in their precinct, and this affected his posture, and the way he spoke with the certainty that everyone was listening.

However, when it was just Tweek and Clyde, Clyde seemed to regress into his younger self. He was bubblier, more open and honest. In some ways, he was messier, too, flitting from one topic to the next like a restless little ladybird, admitting to things he never would have in front of his colleagues. And yet, when Tweek asked if Clyde was seeing anyone, he got all embarrassed and bashful, and offered only a vague response about “some girl.” This seemed odd, but Tweek supposed a guy’s doll was the topic of intense scrutiny amongst Clyde’s other friends. He was probably only seeking to avoid criticism. 

Tweek used Clyde’s discomfort to his advantage and switched the conversation to police work instead. Clyde’s relief about not getting quizzed on his new girl further meant he was willing to open up on the seemingly safer topic. Tweek steered the conversation further, on to what it was like to work with Cartman. 

“The Chief’s a great guy, really,” Clyde shrugged, “He just gets a little… over-enthusiastic about his job, that’s all. Believes pre-emptive policing is what’s best for this city.”

‘Pre-emptive policing,’ that was what he had said. Tweek knew what this was code for, of course: Cartman arrested black folk without so much as an ounce of evidence. Tweek was not surprised by this. The rampant racism in the South Park Police Department was an unspoken secret that the entire city was in on.

Still, it was one thing to have an underlying suspicion about the corruption, and another to be told of it, in great detail. Clyde had initially grown a little cagey about discussing specific instances and experiences with his boss, but they’d been friends long enough for Tweek to know which buttons he had to press to open him right up. With some carefully crafted questions, Tweek eased out more and more information on Cartman from Clyde. Not because he needed to know the grim details, exactly – Tweek had not been recording the conversation, so it would have been word against word anyway. It was, instead, due to a revelation Tweek had recently, lying in bed last Tuesday night, when he couldn’t sleep. 

He had been staring at the ceiling, desperately searching for something to think about other than Craig, and the husky, comforting sound of his voice, and the way the light danced in his eyes when he smiled, and the sensation of his fingertips brushing Tweek’s face, and—Well, anyway, he was looking for something to take his mind of things, and had settled on mentally reworking his plans for creating a rift between Cartman and the rest of the force, as things had been upended in the he-who-shall-not-be-thought-about department.

Tweek had come to the realisation that he did not need to lie to turn Clyde against Cartman. In retrospect, his black-eye stunt had been unnecessary, because every scandalous, inexcusable misdeed in the book had already been committed by the Chief. And, working so close with him, Clyde probably knew about each and every one. All Tweek had to do was gently guide him into connecting all the dots, and get him to finally admit to himself that Cartman was one person that he could not, and should not, look for the good in. He was beyond redemption, a plague on this city. He did not protect and serve the people, he ruled them, and he got a sick kind of kick from doing so. 

And yet, getting Clyde to actually admit that proved harder than Tweek had predicted. Sweet, gullible Clyde always looked for the best in everyone, even if it wasn’t there. He would regularly derail his anecdotes to reassure Tweek that things “weren’t done like that anymore,” or that “ninety-nine percent of the time, everything is hunky-dory,” and after a while Tweek realised that Clyde was mostly trying to convince himself. Tweek suspected that, in truth, Clyde was burdened with a great weight of guilt about his complicity in Cartman’s crimes against humanity, just as Craig was. And yet, unlike his partner, Clyde did not confront this shame. Instead, he buried it deep down within himself, and did his very best not to dwell on it. It was going to take a lot of digging to unearth that guilt. 

There was, of course, the possibility of Tweek only projecting a sense of shame onto his friend. It could be that Clyde really and truly believed that Cartman was a good guy, worthy of defending. If that was the case… what did it say about Clyde’s own character?

“Are you alright, Tweek?” Craig asked, jerking Tweek back to reality. “You look kind of worried.”

“Is Clyde a good person?” Tweek blurted out. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late – the question was out there.

“How do you mean?” Craig glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

Tweek fidgeted in his seat. “I mean—I, um— I’ve just been thinking a lot, about what you told me, last time we met. About the problem with the force isn’t Cartman, but the system itself, and how it allows for people like Cartman to get away with his, uh, misbehaviour. And then I was thinking about Clyde, and how he’s a part of that system too, and then, well… Then I was wondering, does that make Clyde a bad person too?” It was as close to the truth as it could be without revealing too much.

Craig said nothing, and Tweek was worried he’d said something wrong, come across as offensive. Then he realised the delay in response was because Craig was considering this question thoroughly and seriously, a contemplative frown on his disarmingly handsome face.

“I’ve thought about that before,” Craig answered eventually, tone even and measured, “A lot, actually. About what constitutes a good and a bad person.”

“And what do you think?” Tweek asked.

“I think it depends,” Craig said, “On whether or not you define a person’s moral worth based upon their intention, or their effects.”

Tweek stared at him blankly. He tried to figure out a way to ask what they hell he meant without sounding like an idiot. He produced “Can you elaborate?” which he worried sounded too formal, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

Craig elaborated accordingly. “It’s like—Okay, think of it this way. You give someone a compliment, but it comes out backhanded, insulting. Was that a nice thing to do, because you meant for it to be kind? Or was it not, because it really hurt them?”

“Oh,” Tweek said. He thought about this. “I’m not sure. Which one is it?”

“There’s not a right answer,” Craig cocked an eyebrow at him, “This isn’t a trick question. I’m asking what your opinion is. I want to know.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” Tweek murmured. He thought it over, feeling himself twitch and tick as he did so. “I think,” he said, once he’d rehearsed his answer a few times in his head, “I think it depends on the context. Take policing, and Clyde. Say—say he arrests someone who he thought was a criminal, only they were actually innocent. I don’t think it matters if he was trying to do the right thing. He’s still potentially—potentially ruined someone’s life, or at least ruined their day. You can’t ignore that consequence just because he meant well.”

“So he would be a bad person, then?” Craig asked, “That’s what you were saying?” The question was loaded. 

Tweek realised with a start that this conversation meant more to Craig than he had realised. It had never been about Clyde to him, but about his own position in the South Park Police Department. Craig wanted to know if Tweek thought he was a bad person.

“No,” Tweek said, “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say Clyde was bad. I… I don’t really think there is such a thing as a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person. I think we’re all just—just people. Only actions can be good or bad.”

“But don’t you think it’s a person’s actions that defines them?” Craig challenged. “And if you say that actions are defined by their effect, then by extension, is it not the effect of someone’s actions that defines that person, too?”

Tweek did his best to keep up, but Craig was talking too fast. “I—maybe? I guess, I guess that— But, on the other hand—Oh, I don’t know!” Tweek put his head in his hands and groaned, “This is all very complicated.”

“Sorry,” Craig said, “I didn’t mean to pester you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Tweek sat up and offered him a tentative smile. “I think, in the end, all anyone can do is just try to be a good person, you know, even if that’s an unachievable goal. Just, try to make the world a little bit better. And, if the outcome doesn’t match the intent, then you just… Just learn from it and try to do better next time. There’s not a whole lot else anyone can do.”

Craig looked at him pensively. He said nothing, but nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Tweek licked his lips nervously. He was not at all sure how his answer to Craig’s question had been received. As always, Craig was unreadable, a blank slate, a brick wall. Tweek fretted over what might be behind that carefully crafted exterior. He had a terrible feeling that it might be anguish. The last thing Tweek wanted was to be responsible for that pain, in anyway. He ought to say something, he thought. Something far less indirect, something which clarified his true feelings about Craig. Well, not his true feelings, but—but close enough. 

Tweek took a shallow inhale. It would have been deeper, but his chest was too tight to draw in much air. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Craig,” he said breathlessly. It was tough to say but it needed to be said. “I think—I think that you’re one of the kindest I’ve ever met.”

Craig blinked in surprise. “You—you do?” His thick dark eyebrows went up, then pulled together. He studied Tweek incredulously, hesitant to believe him.

“Yeah,” Tweek mumbled, wringing his hands. “I do. I really do.”

“Well,” Craig said, with a slight edge of uncertainty, “Um, thank you.” He fixed his gaze back on the road, staring so intently outwards that it almost appeared that he was looking for confirmation from the traffic that Tweek had meant what he said. If that was what he was looking for, he was offered no answer. They came to a stop at a set of lights and Craig looked back to Tweek once more. His eyes searched him.

Tweek wondered if he was expected to say something else. He had nothing to say – at least, nothing he could bring himself to articulate – so instead he offered him a self-conscious smile.

It appeared that this was answer enough. Craig tilted his head. “You’re very sweet, Tweek,” he said, and it was ambiguous whether this was intended as a compliment, or if it was simply an observation. 

Tweek felt the rosy-pink acid in his belly bubble up and burn. He wrapped his arms around his tummy and willed it to stop. It did not. Good God, he thought to himself. If that was all it took for Craig to make him weak at the knees, Tweek was not sure how he was going to make it through the rest of the night upright. The odds were not in his favour.

The rest of the car journey was a comfortable silence, or at least it was to Craig, oblivious to Tweek’s internal struggle. They did not speak again until they arrived at their destination, which took precisely eleven minutes. Tweek was acutely aware of this because he occupied himself by running his fingertip around the glass face of his wristwatch.

“Here we are,” Craig announced, when those eleven minutes had passed. “The fair.”

Tweek looked up and gasped involuntarily at the sight of it.

The fairground was on the Green, a park in the centre of town. Hedges lined the edges and paved concrete paths wove in gentle curves across the expansive grass. Red and white tents and red and white booths occupied the plains, with thrums of people milling between them. Music floated from somewhere in the depths of it, the classic carousel tune, intermingling with the sound of vendors calling out to passers-by. But the most beautiful part was the lights. Colourful fairy lights were strung from tent to tent, like stars threaded on string, and pretty lamps cast a warm flickering glow across the area. In dark, from a distance, the place looked magical: a postcard, come to life.

Craig had to drive around a little to find a parking space, but he came across one eventually. He put one hand on the back of Tweek’s chair, and kept the other on the steering wheel, twisting in his seat as he reversed expertly into the spot. Tweek found this gesture incredibly attractive, though he could not put his finger on why, exactly. Perhaps it was the arm, placed so close to him, or perhaps it was the effortless demonstration of skill. Or perhaps it was just that Tweek found everything Craig did attractive.

Tweek had known he was a homosexual for a very long time. Ever since he could remember, he had always had a great fascination for men. When he was younger, he would find a boy who seemed to him the pinnacle of masculinity, and attach himself to him, trailing behind him wherever he went, worshiping the ground he walked on. This continued throughout his elementary years, and right up until high school, where his fixation developed from simple admiration into a more complex desire. Every week, Tweek would find a new guy to latch onto, to obsess over, and since back then he was far more outgoing, he would wiggle his way into his circle of friends. Tweek always seemed to know just what to say to get into their good books. Because of his expert flattery and knack for getting people to open up, quite a few of his pursuits culminated in romantic intimacy, to varying degrees. The subtle brushing of knuckles when they were stood close enough. A chaste kiss behind the bleachers when they were certain they were alone. A hand slipped down another’s pants when neither could hold back any longer.

And yet, it was all fleeting. Sooner or later, the other boy would end things, in the name of decency or the law or something like that. Tweek would nurse his broken heart until the next boy came along and caught his eye.

Stan Marsh had been one of those boys. They had met when they were seventeen, after he and his girlfriend Wendy joined the theatre group he attended. Tweek had picked up on something unusual about the young couple’s relationship, in a way someone would not notice if they themselves were not ‘unusual’. Stan was every bit the perfect guy – brooding and handsome, with enough charisma and charm to bowl anyone backwards. Wendy, too, was every bit the perfect girl – pretty and attentive, with great intelligence and insight. The two were permanently glued to each other’s side, hand in hand wherever they went. 

And yet, they had never kissed. Not once. Tweek knew this because he watched them out of the corner of his eye constantly, spurred on by burning curiosity. Sure, it might have just been that they were modest, but Stan did not strike him as a modest person. He was bold, and he was brash, and he was out there. Tweek became completely and utterly convinced that there was only one explanation: Stan was a homosexual, like himself. 

That was why Tweek became friends with the pair. He had initially intended on only befriending Stan, but since he was impossible to get alone, he wound up talking to Wendy, too. Alas, he quickly realised that his initial assessment had not been the case. The couple expressed their affection in subtler ways than he had picked up on. A reassuring squeeze of the other’s arm. A curious glance, to check the other was okay. A quick whisper in the other’s ear, which resulted in peals of laughter. It was all there. It was probably just a coincidence that Tweek had never seen them kiss. 

Tweek was forced to admit that Stan was not an option.

Still, though, he continued to build their friendship, because he was not so shallow that he would abandon someone once sex was off the table. The three became very close friends indeed, and it was a rewarding bond to have formed. Those two years in the theatre troop had a special place in Tweek’s heart, and he regularly looked back on it with bittersweet nostalgia. Simpler times. Happier times.

Stan had told him, eventually, the truth about his and Wendy’s relationship. They were backstage, during rehearsals for Twelfth Night, in which Stan had been cast as Sebastian, Wendy as Olivia, and Tweek as Antonio. Wendy was onstage, and this provided a rare opportunity to talk to Stan alone.

“I think Wendy’s quite nervous,” Stan observed, “About the final scene.”

“Why?” Tweek asked. She was a perfectly good actress. He could not think of what in particular she might find challenging about it.

“Because,” Stan said, “The director might have us—you know. Kiss.”

Tweek did his best to hide his surprise. He had long since let go of his suspicions about their relationship, dismissing it as nothing more than a wishful thinking. With it, too, had gone his attraction to Stan – he thought of him only as a friend now. And yet, this comment still ignited that old curiosity within him. “Why’s that?” Tweek asked, “Why would that be a problem?”

“Wendy hates that sort of thing,” Stan said. “She says it makes her feel ill, just thinking about it.” He snickered, “She calls it ‘mashing food holes together.’ She things it’s disgusting.”

Tweek had never thought of kissing in this way before, but he supposed she was not technically wrong in her assessment. “And what do you think?” he asked. “How do you feel about it?”

Stan shrugged, “I don’t feel anything at all.”

Tweek could not imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship without such a thing, but he was self-aware enough to know he was the last person who should be judging others on the dynamics of their romantic life. Since moving on from Stan some time ago, Tweek had returned to his fleeting entanglements with various boys, and though sometimes he longed for commitment, he was still pleasantly occupied by them. He was always careful enough to keep things out of the watchful eye of the public. Tweek never told anyone about his habits, not even Clyde, and did not have to worry about the other boys telling anyone either, because the only way they would know of Tweek’s homosexuality was if they themselves were also queer. To out him would be throwing themselves under the bus, too.

Stan never spoke of the complexities of his relationship again, and Tweek never asked any further questions on it. He was satisfied with knowing that Stan trusted him enough to tell him, and that was enough for him. In the end, Wendy did not even have to kiss Stan. The production went off without a hitch – well, as smoothly as one can when the cast consists entirely of teenagers. That was certainly one thing Tweek did not miss about his adolescence.

For some reason, Tweek never told Clyde about Wendy and Stan. It wasn’t as if he were worried that Clyde would get jealous. It was just that Tweek thought of his friendship with Stan and Wendy and his friendship with Clyde as two entirely separate worlds: school and theatre. He preferred to keep it that way. It was just simpler.

“You’re allowed to get out of the car, you know.”

Tweek flinched at looked up at Craig. Apparently, he had been immersed in his memories long enough for Craig to get out the car and open Tweek’s door for him. “Right,” he squeaked, embarrassed, “Sorry! I got, uh, distracted.” He hopped out of the car.

The pair made their way across the Green and towards the hustle and bustle of the fair. As they approached, the sound grew louder, and the throngs of people seemed to swell and inflate before his eyes. Tweek instinctively adjusted his position so he was firmly by Craig’s side, in an effort not to get swallowed up by the crowd. Craig sensed this slight hitch in anxiety, and drew protectively closer, near enough for their knuckles to brush, if only for a moment.

Tweek glanced down at Craig’s hand, which swung by his side. There was a small scar beside the joint of his ring finger. Tweek imagined moving his lips across it, softly, and then kissing each of his knuckles in turn. He winced and quickly tore his gaze away. He felt immensely guilty for being consumed by such a thought, as if it might be somehow broadcasted to the crowd surrounding him. He wondered what had happened to that boy he once was, so secure in himself, confident enough to know what he wanted and go after it. The boy who had enjoyed this part the best: the will-they, won’t-they, the tantalising potential, and the titillating art of fulfilling it. How thrilling it had all seemed back then, how electrifying. Each new crush had been more exhilarating than the last.

But that was then, and this was now. Tweek was not that person anymore, he had accepted that long ago. The man he was now found nothing enjoyable about the instability of his predicament. The only emotion it triggered was a sickening dread.

“Where to first?” Craig asked, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his trench coat as he scanned their environment.

Tweek did a 360-degree assessment of the area. The wealth of choice made it rather overwhelming, so he settled on one at random. “Uh, how about the Hall of Mirrors?” He regretted the suggestion instantly.

“Sure thing,” Craig said. They made their way towards the tent, Craig’s knack for navigating crowds coming in handy once again. Stage smoke pooled out the open flap dramatically, though the teenager manning the entrance did not seemed particularly thrilled by this flare.

“Just one cent per person,” he said, voice oozing boredom. His face was slack, and his eyes had a lack of focus to them, so that if he had not spoken, Tweek might have assumed he was dead. He was dressed in a red pinstripe shirt and white waistcoat, and this jovial uniform clashed comically with his disdainful attitude.

Tweek reached into his pocket for the money, but Craig got there before him. “I’ve got it,” he said, pulling two cents from his wallet.

“But—” Tweek began to protest, but Craig waved it away.

“Don’t worry about it. You can get the next one, if you want.”

Tweek conceded. He was mindful of the fact that Craig had also funded their last two stints at Jimmy’s Ritz, not because Tweek had allowed him to do so, but because he had been rather preoccupied by his fun little breakdowns when it came to paying the bill. Not that Craig had never brought it up. A true gentleman.

To his pleasant surprise, Tweek found that he did not mind mirrors when they exaggerated his appearance to become deliberately unrecognisable. As they made their way through the smoky corridors, the many grotesque Tweeks that blinked back at him were reassuring, in strange sort of way. He flitted from one mirror to the next, peering at the leering figures, and Craig followed him with an expression of soft amusement. He seemed to be more entertained by Tweek’s reactions than the reflections themselves.

They reached the last warped mirror of the winding succession, and Tweek drew to a standstill in front of it –well, still by his standards, anyway, for of course he continued to fidget and shift his weight from foot to foot. Craig sidled up beside him. 

Tweek started and put a hand up to halt him in his tracks. “Hang on—Wait, wait.”

Craig stopped and looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Just— just take a step to your right,” Tweek directed, eyes fixed firmly on the mirror.

Craig obeyed.

“One more, yes, that’s it. Now, take a step back. No, not that far, just—Yes, perfect!”

“What are you doing?” Craig asked, bemused. 

Tweek beamed victoriously at the distorted figures in the mirror. “Look!” he said.

Craig looked. “I don’t get it,” he said. He glanced from the mirror to Tweek, and back to the mirror again. “What am I looking at?” 

“I’m taller than you!” Tweek triumphantly declared. “Ha! See?” He rubbed his hands together with a devious grin, as if this had been his plan all along: lure Craig into the Hall of Mirrors to reduce his image to a mortifyingly inferior height.

Craig laughed at Tweek’s immature taunts. “Don’t get too big for your boots,” he smirked. He repositioned himself so that he was standing behind Tweek – right behind him, actually, close enough that Tweek could almost feel his touch. Craig put his hands on his hips, and his wibbly-wobbly towering reflection did the same. “Not so big in comparison, now, are we?”

Tweek snorted, doing his best not to let their proximity throw him. “That’s cheating,” he huffed, “You’ve got an unfair advantage.” He pivoted to glower up at Craig – real Craig, not wavy Craig. “How tall are you, anyway?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know… Like eight feet? Maybe nine?”

Craig laughed. “Six foot two.”

“So I was close, then,” Tweek shrugged. 

“And how about you?” Craig peered down at him, “You’re what, two feet tall? No, must be just shy of that.”

“I’m tall enough to reach the ground,” Tweek crossed his arms, “And that’s what counts.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Craig laughed again. It was such a unique sound, rich and warm and husky. “It would be a shame if you were so short you had to float.” 

It felt good to make Craig laugh. A sensation of warmth flourished within Tweek, along with a flock of excited little butterflies. This time, however, it was accompanied by no feeling of anxiety or dread. Tweek was surprised by this, but he let it be. Maybe the boy he once was had not faded completely, after all.

The exit to the Hall of Mirrors backed right next to the entrance to the Haunted House – or, rather, the Haunted Tent, as there were not solid walls, just thick, heavy material that blocked out all light.

Craig turned to Tweek expectantly, “You up for it?”

Tweek was not entirely confident that he was, but he did not want to come across as cowardly, or a spoilsport. Sure, he considered himself to be both of those things, but Craig didn’t need to know that. “Sure I am,” he said, and made sure to get his money out first this time.

To his relief, the Haunted House was not as terrifying as he’d thought it might be. Sure, the witches and the demons and the vampires were unsettling, but Tweek was used to approaching scenery, set and actors from an analytical point of view. This perspective afforded him a sense of distance and security. If he looked past the presentation and thought of it as nothing but a show of theatrics, it was bearable. 

The exception to this, however, was when a man wrapped head to toe in ancient looking bandages materialised out of nowhere in front of him. Tweek let out a high-pitched screech and stumbled backwards, arms flung around his head. He would have toppled right over were it not for a firm hand on his shoulder that righted him.

Tweek blinked up at Craig sheepishly. “Uh, sorry about that.” He fiddled with the end of his scarf as he felt his face grow hot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He could not tell if Craig was amused by his skittishness or concerned. He gave no indication of either, and did nothing but pat him on the shoulder as he let him go. 

They carried on. The light in the tunnel lessened until everything in front of them was reduced to strange, monstrous shadows and vague silhouettes, rather reminiscent of the alleyway to Jimmy’s. Tweek picked up his pace, not in the mood to linger. He reached a turning and a light flashed, briefly illuminating a giant black spider, lurking in her great, enthralling web. Tweek jumped backwards in surprise, barely suppressing another scream. It’s not real, he reminded himself, just a prop. With careful control, he shaped his fear into artistic curiosity. He forced himself to wait until the light flashed on again – an uncomfortable ten second interval, by his estimate – and peered cautiously at the spider. See? He told himself. Only a bit of set dressing, nothing to be afraid of. He studied the design, and his jitters began to ebb. It was by far the most impressive piece he’d seen in here so far. The spider had been painted with a steady hand, and the blood red diamond on its abdomen was a nice touch. The silvery strands of the web were intricately woven and as pretty as lace. He thought it a great shame that it was hidden by the darkness, doomed to underappreciation.

Another thought struck him then. “Hey, Craig,” he grinned, “Got any spiderwebs?”

There was no reply. 

“Craig?” 

Nothing. 

Tweek realised with a horrifying jolt that his companion was not there. Immediately, his fear rushed back, escalated by rising panic. The darkness grew thicker and heavier. It was suffocating. Tweek tried to frantically cast his mind back to when he’d last seen Craig but could not pinpoint a specific place. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and saliva begin to pool in his mouth. Was it the mummy? No, it must have been more recent than that, right? Right? Memories jostled and jumbled together in one great, chaotic swirl. It was no use trying to make any sense of them now.

“Craig?” He called out again, whirling around wildly in an effort to get his bearings, but spinning so quickly that he only succeeded in making himself dizzy. He took a few unsteady steps forward, “Craig, where are you?” His voice had hitched an octave and was as tight as the tension in his lungs. “Where did you go?” He asked the soulless darkness. The soulless darkness did not answer.

Tweek wasn’t sure if the best thing to do was to go looking for Craig, or to stay put, and just wait to be found. If he waited, he would avoid the grim fate of the pair being doomed to wander these halls for all eternity, each coming within inches of where the other had been, only moments ago. Then again, what if something terrible had happened to Craig? What if he was trapped somewhere? What if he was bleeding out? What if he was dying, slowly and painfully, with no one by his side, whilst Tweek stood twiddling his thumbs, waiting for a man who would never come.

He was overwhelmed with indecision. “Craig,” he called out again. His voice cracked, “Craig, please…”

“Hello?”

Tweek jumped.

“Is that you?” The voice was too muffled to discern who’s it was.

Tweek darted towards where the sound had come from. As he drew closer, a dim silhouette loomed from the shadows. It might be Craig. Or it might be just another of the House’s horrors. Or it might not be real at all, and Tweek had become so overwhelmed that he’d started seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. 

Impulsively, Tweek flicked out his arm, to see if it would pass through the figure. He was terrified that he might find nothing but cold, empty space, but he had to chance it. To his relief, it was a real… thing, whatever it was. Tweek’s fingers traced down the thing and found a hand. It was warm, and softer than he’d expected. The touch sent shivers up his arm and down his spine.

“Tweek, is that you?” Craig. It was definitely Craig. Which meant the hand he was holding was also Craig’s. Shit.

Tweek was paralysed. 

“Are you alright?” Craig asked with an edge of concern. “Are you okay?” He did not let go.

Tweek let out a breath that came out as a wheeze. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” he said eventually. His panic gave way to embarrassment, but he did not let go either. “Just lost you for a bit.” Tweek twitched and squeezed Craig’s hand involuntarily, and Craig squeezed back.

“I’m here,” he said gently, “I’m here, it’s alright, you’re safe.” Unexpectedly, he pulled Tweek in, and Tweek did not resist. Craig let him rest his head gently on his chest, and hesitantly, Tweek nestled in. He felt Craig’s arm swim around his waist and hold him tight. 

They just stood like that, for a moment. In the dark. All alone, but together.

Tweek felt the gentle rise and fall of each of Craig’s breaths, and shut his eyes, trying to memorise the slow, steady rhythm. He would never get an opportunity to be this close to him again. He wanted so desperately to treasure this moment as it happened, to bask in it.

“Your hands are really cold,” Craig murmured. 

“Sorry,” Tweek squeaked. He took this as a sign that he should pull away, and did so, self-consciously. Though Craig still stood close enough for him to sense him, the distance between them had never felt so vast.

Tweek put a hand up to shield his eyes as they stepped out of the tent and back into the open air. The light that flooded from the lanterns was not particularly harsh, but it was still a sudden change from the dim chambers they’d come from.

“Where to next?” Craig asked him. 

Tweek was about to reply, but his stomach got there first. It let out a low growl, and he clapped his arms around it, embarrassed.

Craig smirked at him. “Hungry?”

“Apparently so.”

“Did you not eat before you left?”

“No,” Tweek admitted, “I forgot.”

Craig frowned at him. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said, “It’s important to eat regularly. Look after yourself, Tweek.”

“I try to,” Tweek said hasitly, “But I just—It slips my mind sometimes. I don’t have much of an appetite.” He did not know how to properly explain the disconnect between his body and his mind. He surveyed the fairground, just to avoid looking at him. 

“Hey, I’m not trying to guilt trip you,” Craig shifted to stand directly in front of him and bent his head down slightly, so that they were eye to eye again. “I just—" he hesitated, then mumbled quickly, “I care about you.” 

Tweek stumbled back a pace, caught off guard. “Oh, um. I… I care about you, too.” He could not help but smile, just a little. Craig cared about him. Though it was hard to imagine, the knowledge still made him feel… warm. Special.

“Well,” Craig glanced around nonchalantly, “Shall we find something to eat, then?” And suddenly he seemed utterly unphased by this exchange. It was just as he had been after the moment they had shared, back at the Haunted House, and before, in the car. This apparent indifference took the wind out of Tweek’s sails. Of course, Craig regularly acted like Tweek’s strange behaviour was nothing of note, which normally he appreciated, but these exchanges were different. At least, he had thought momentarily that they were, but each time something like this happened, Craig’s apathetic reaction shattered his hope. He would have preferred stiff awkwardness to this plain neutrality, because at least discomfort would acknowledge that something had indeed happened, whatever it was.

Tweek stopped himself before he fell any further down this spiral of self-pity in the face of unrequited attraction. He had gone into this evening knowing exactly how it would play out. He had no right to act surprised by the current turn of events.

Tweek turned back to Craig. “Food, right. Lead the way.”

It did not take them long to find the right stall, as the smell of cinnamon churros and sweet apple cider was a reliable guide. The sight of the sweet pastries made his mouth water. He was definitely starting to feel hungry now. The queue was a little lengthy, but Tweek joined the back eagerly. It would be worth the wait. “So,” he turned to Craig, determined to move on from whatever had passed between them, “Why the fair?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, why’d you suggest we come here? Why not the pictures, or- or something else, I don’t know.”

Craig shrugged, “I’m not sure. I just—it’s nice, isn’t it? The sights, and the music, and, uh, the lights. It’s just pretty. I love the atmosphere.” A slight smile formed as he admired the scenery. “It’s just… there’s not many places like it.”

Tweek nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, “It’s real nice. I’m glad you did pick it.” 

“And I like the crowd, too,” Craig added, which Tweek had a harder time agreeing with. Craig noticed his sceptical expression and went on to justify his sentiment. “Everyone here, they’ve come to enjoy themselves. There’s a real sense of communal spirit. It’s a nice place to get lost in.” He paused, then grinned sheepishly at him, “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

“No, no,” Tweek said, “I get what you mean, don’t worry.” At least, he got in principle. In practice, however, he was not sure he could relate. The crowd to him was anything but comforting.

They worked their way gradually up the line, until they made it to the front of the booth. A jovial man with rosy cheeks and a full silvery moustache greeted them as they approached. “What can I get you gentleman?” His pinstripe uniform suited his aesthetic brilliantly.

“A coffee and a cider,” Craig read from the menu that hung on the back wall of the booth, written in neat chalk, “Two bags of French fries and a bag of churros.”

Tweek might have protested being ordered on behalf of, but it was what he was going to ask for anyway. Plus, his assertiveness was kind of hot. Tweek made no attempt to justify his opinion to himself, just let it be. 

They received their food and sat at one of the rickety wooden tables arranged around the stall. Tweek found that the fries were too hot to eat straight away, but he did anyway, in eager appreciation of the heat they provided. They talked as they ate, drifting freely from topic to topic, but Craig’s day at work was neatly skirted around. Tweek had learned by now that Craig did not particularly enjoy dwelling on that subject any more than he had to, and since Tweek had made the decision to keep Craig out of his job for Stan, he did not feel particularly enthusiastic to talk about it either. 

“There was a fair that visited Denver annually when I was younger,” Craig said. “I’d go with my family every time it came. It was the one day a year we’d ever get along.”

“Did you argue often?” Tweek asked. “With your family?”

“I don’t know. I guess. I was an asshole as a kid, though, so half the fights were probably picked by me. I didn’t get much nicer as I grew older either, just kind of… quieter.”

“You, as a brooding, angst-ridden teenager,” Tweek giggled, “That’s quite the mental image.”

“I know,” Craig groaned, “Even thinking about it now-- Ugh.” He pulled a face. “I didn’t have a lot of friends, but only because I’d flip off anyone who tried to talk to me. If it weren’t for school and Church, I don’t think I ever would have left my room.”

“Why not?” Tweek asked. His own teenage years had been the best of his life. “What did you have to be so moody about, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Craig shrugged. He paused, then said hesitantly, “Well, actually, I do. I had so many thoughts and feelings that I didn’t know how to deal with, so I just shoved ‘em deep down and let ‘em fester. While everyone else was spending their adolescence figuring themselves out, growing into developed, well rounded people, I wasted it away by trying not to think about my problems but obsess over them anyway. I didn’t even realise what I was missing until suddenly high school was over and my peers all went off and got on with their lives, as fresh new adults, and I had… nothing. No direction. No purpose. No meaning.”

“And that’s when you started working at the asylum?”

“No, that was a little later.”

“So what came next, then?”

“What came next was that I became a youth pastor.”

Tweek choked on his coffee. “I’m sorry,” he spluttered between coughs, “You did— You did what now?”

Craig laughed, “I guess I should have warned you before I dropped such a bombshell.”

“I just—I can’t imagine it. You, as a preacher – and to kids, no less.”

“Well, technically my dad was the youth pastor. I made no attempt to find myself a job, and he didn’t want a deadbeat of a son, so he dragged me along to his sermons and sessions and appointed me in charge of making sure the little brats didn’t strangle each other.”

“And what was that like, then?”

“I hated it, at first. My sense of faith was not exactly on par with most in that line of work. I’d been forced to go Church every Sunday, and I had been hoping that when I hit eighteen, I’d finally be free from it all.” Craig looked a little bitter, but he soon brightened. “But once I got used to it, it wasn’t so bad. I learnt pretty quickly that the trick to working with kids is that you gotta treat them like they’re adults.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s like—When people talk to children, the instinctively dumb themselves down. Talk slow and simple, you know, real patronising. Kids can tell when adults treat them that way, they’re not stupid, and they hate it. So when a grown-up talks to them like his equal, they pay attention. They figure out that there’s a certainly level of maturity expected, and for the most part they stick to it, because they know they have to work to earn their respect.”

“Huh,” Tweek said. “Well, that’s interesting. Makes sense, I suppose.” He took another sip of his coffee, this time making sure not to inhale it. “So was it worth it in the end?” he asked. “Being a youth pastor?”

Craig considered this. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, I think it was. It gave me the opportunity to finally break out of my shell. Got me out of my head.”

Tweek wondered what it was that had tormented adolescent Craig so much in the first place. He had an inkling suspicion, an unfounded theory, at the back of his mind, but he was unwilling to let it grow, and so at the back of his mind it stayed. 

A breeze blew across the fairground and bit at every passer-by it came across. Tweek shivered. “Let’s get moving again,” he said. “I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

The wandered round a little as the finished their drinks. Tweek laced his numb fingers about his cup and watched as steam rose from the surface of his coffee and danced up into the night sky. Tiny waves rippled across the top of the liquid, a consequence of his unsteady hands. 

The sound of a gaggle of giggling children made him look up from his drink. They were crowded around a tall stripy box, and as they drew closer, they could see a curtained opening on the upper half of the front. Two puppets bobbed as slightly muffled voices came from within.

Tweek pulled a face at the sight.

“Not a fan of Punch and Judy?” Craig asked.

“It’s an affront to the art of theatre,” Tweek huffed indignantly. “Abysmal.”

“I used to love them when I was little,” Craig said. He eyed the scene as Punch began to chase Judy about the stage. “I think I was just too young to understand how awful they were.” He winced as Punch landed a hit on his wife. “What kind of message is that meant to send to the young ‘uns, anyway?”

“Awful,” Tweek agreed with distaste. “Let’s move on.”

They found instead a coconut shy. In it stood three pyramids of cans, each stacked to varying heights. Hung all about the booths were stuffed animals and toys, each boasting a tag which detailed how many cans needed to be toppled in order to earn the prize. There was a large red-brown bear propped up on the counter at the back that caught Tweek’s attention. It had tired looking eyes and sagged over slightly, as if it did not have the energy to sit up properly. It was very endearing.

“Try your luck, gentleman?” The woman working the booth smiled brightly at them, clasping her hands at her waist. She had rich dark skin and hair scaped carefully back into a low frizzy bun.

Craig looked to Tweek, and he realised he was expected to go first. The young woman took the hint and addressed her instructions to Tweek.

“Go for the smallest stack first,” she said as she handed Tweek his coconuts. “If you knock over all six cans, I’ll restock you up to four coconuts again, and you can move onto the next tower.”

Tweek nodded, then turned to Craig. “I should warn you,” he said, “I’m a terrible shot.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not all that bad.”

He was. As predicted, in four shots, he only succeeded in knocking over a single can. The tremors in his hands were largely responsible for his poor aim. 

“I’ve set quite a high bar,” Tweek said to Craig with mock severity, “So don’t be embarrassed if you don’t do as well as me.” He studied his nails, “We can’t all be perfect shots.” 

Craig matched his serious expression. “You’re certainly a tough act to follow.” He picked up a coconut and drew back his arm. In one swift movement, he downed the first tower.

The crash made Tweek flinch. This was just a gut reaction, though, for he was more intrigued than alarmed by it. He shifted his position, leaning both elbows on the counter as to get a good view of Craig at work. Tweek’s eyes tracked his every move. 

Craig wound back and cleared all but two of the cans of the next stack. A second coconut soon cleared that up. Tweek watched with bated breath as he moved onto the third pyramid, face set with determination. It proved more of a challenge, and his first shot only managed to dislodge the top can. His next cleared a few more, but his third sailed right by them all.

“Last one,” the woman behind the counter said excitedly. She seemed as invested in this saga as Tweek was, eyes sparkling. “Final shot.”

Craig adjusted his stance. He bent down slightly and narrowed his eyes. He took aim. He threw. The coconut sailed through the air and knocked all but one of the cans to the ground. The final teetered on the edge, before ultimately toppling to join its fallen friends.

“Craig!” Tweek bounced on his heels excitedly, “Great going!”

“Well, like you said,” Craig grinned deviously, “We can’t all be perfect shots.” He winked at him, “It’s lucky I am.”

Tweek’s stomach did a summersault.

“Which one do you want?” The young woman gestured around the stall. “You can pick anything.”

Craig looked to Tweek and followed his eyeline. “I’ll have the bear,” he said, “The brown bear.” He received just that, and the pair stepped to the side as the next group of people had their turn. They started up their aimless wandering again, and Craig presented the bear to Tweek like a medal.

“Me?” Tweek looked around, as if he might be offering it to someone else.

“Who do you think?”

“Well, I—But it’s yours. You earnt it!”

“I earnt the right to give it to whoever I want,” Craig said earnestly, “And I choose you.”

Tweek took the bear. He stared at it like it was made of solid gold. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I, um… thank you.” He clutched it tightly to his chest, as if it might disappear into thin air if he did not.

Craig rubbed the back of his neck. “The colour matches your eyes,” he observed, then grinned sheepishly. “Gosh, that’s real corny. Sorry.”

“No,” Tweek said breathlessly, “No, it’s—that’s sweet. You’re very sweet, Craig.” His entire body was on fire. It felt good.

They stared at each other with wide, unblinking eyes. Breath escaped their lips in cloudy puffs. In that moment, Tweek had never felt so vulnerable, so open, so exposed. And yet, Craig to him was the opposite. His gaze revealed nothing. Tweek realised that in some ways, Craig was still that the boy he had once been. Guarded, isolated, wary. Craig had told him that he trusted him, last time they met, and yet he still did not let down his defences, not fully. The more Tweek got to know him, the less he felt he knew. The more layers he chipped away, the more he discovered was yet to be found. 

Tweek was not sure he would have ever been able to look away, were it not for the gong of a distant clocktower breaking their spell. Neither spoke as it sounded. Tweek counted each chime.

“It’s getting kind of late,” Craig said after the tenth proved to be the last, “The fair will probably be closing soon.” Again, he breezed right past their moment they had shared. It was almost infuriating.

“Let’s do just one last thing,” Tweek said quickly. He did not want this night to end, not now, not ever. He looked around, and his eyes settled on the great, round ride in the dead centre of the fairground. “The Ferris wheel.”

“Okay,” Craig said, “That sounds nice.” He took a breath, as if to say something else, but did not.

“What?” Tweek asked.

“Nothing,” Craig shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s get going.”

The queue to the Ferris wheel was thankfully short, as the crowd in general had thinned. They paid their fare and climbed into a carriage. The combination of the narrow seat and Craig’s height meant that they had no choice but to squeeze side by side, their legs pressed against each other. The pressure of his touch was electrifying. Tweek was glad to have a bear to hide his crotch.

The wheel began its slow turn, carriage rocking gently as they rose. As they climbed higher, the sea of city lights came into view. From this distance, the grit and grime of South Park was washed away, leaving only the windows of buildings and headlights of cars. They twinkled like stars, fallen to earth. “Wow,” Tweek murmured, “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Craig agreed, but he was not looking at the sights. He was looking softly at Tweek.

Tweek turned to gaze shyly back at him. “What are you thinking?” he asked timidly. “I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

“Oh,” Craig blinked, embarrassed. Perhaps he had not realised he had been staring. He cleared his throat, “Ah, well. Good question.” He turned and addressed the expanse of the city below. “What am I thinking?” He looked almost… flustered. Tweek had never imagined it was even possible for him to be so. He was so confident, so secure, all the time. Even when their conversation had got serious, back at Jimmy’s Ritz, he had still seemed sure in himself. Tweek had never seen more than a glimmer of this sort of vulnerability from him. And yet, he saw it now. Watching him with that look in his eye, like he was holding back, so close to bursting but so unwilling to let himself say another word. It occurred to Tweek, for the first time, that perhaps there were subjects which even Craig did not know how to broach.

“Can I guess?” Tweek asked. “Can I guess what’s on your mind?”

Craig nodded, eyes wide.

“I think…” Tweek searched his face, as if the right words might be found there. They were not. Tweek chose his own instead. “I think you’re wondering if I’m like you.”

“How do you mean?” Craig feigned confusion, but Tweek saw through it. 

Finally, a time where he could see through Craig. Tweek could read him like an open book. “You know exactly what I mean.”

The Ferris wheel came to a stop, and with it, the hum of the machine. All was quiet. They hung in the balance, at the very top, silhouetted by a blanket of stars.

Craig swallowed. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe I am.” He looked away, and then looked back. His gaze was almost desperate. “Are you?” he asked huskily.

“Yes,” Tweek whispered. “Yes, I am.” 

Craig’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh,” he said, taken aback. “I… Wow. Okay.” He leant back in his seat and tipped his head back, up to the heavens. “Right,” he murmured. “Well then.”

Unsure how to respond to this, Tweek mirrored his posture and looked up too. The stars glittered like fine jewels, floating upon a vast ocean of ink. He felt like if he stood up, right now, he could reach up and pluck one down, and cradle it tenderly in his palms.

They wheel started turning again, and they began to sink slowly down. They did not look at each other until they had reached the bottom and had got out. The ground swayed beneath Tweek’s feet as he stepped back onto solid land. He dropped the bear and put out his arms to steady himself. He found Craig by his side and used him for support as he got his bearings. Craig bit his lip, as if to hide a smile. They walked side by side back to the car. They did not say a word, but every now and then their knuckles would brush against each other, and this was simply enough.

They reached the car, and Craig unlocked it, but he did not get in. He turned instead to Tweek and spoke for the first time since they had been up, amongst the stars. “So,” he said, “I could drive you home…”

Tweek waited for the second part, but Craig became suddenly unsure of himself. “Or?” he prompted.

“Or,” Craig said. He scuffed the sidewalk with the heel of his boot. “Or you could, um, come back to mine. For a drink, or something.”

Or something. “Yes,” Tweek said, probably too quickly. “Yes, I’d like that a lot.”

Craig looked as if he had not expected this response. He regained his confidence, chest filling out, shoulders broadening once more. “Great,” he said as he got in. “I don’t live too far.” The traffic in the city on a Saturday night was not ideal, but any amount of time between here and Craig’s flat would have felt too long anyway. 

As they drove, it began to rain. It seemed to come out of nowhere, for they had seen no clouds in the sky before now. Thin sleet at first, but gradually it built up, until great, heavy drops were clattering away on the metal of the car roof. It was as if the sky had been holding back its downpour just for them. Tweek pressed his hand to the passenger window and peered out at the city streets as they passed by. “I’m so relieved I’m not walking home in this,” he remarked.

“Were you planning to?” Craig asked, “You know I would have driven you.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it through the evening without ruining everything. I thought—I kind of thought it was inevitable that I would, sooner or later.” Tweek watched the windshield wipers bobbing to and fro across the glass. “I’m glad I didn’t.” When he received no reply, he looked to Craig in alarm. “Oh God, I didn’t ruin it, did I?”

“No,” Craig laughed, “Tweek, of course you didn’t.”

“Good,” he sighed. “I was worried I had without even realising.”

“Well, I promise to let you know if you ever do,” Craig said, “But I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Tweek wanted so badly to believe him. He decided he would, just for now. 

Craig’s place was located in a small pocket of suburbia. Rows of large apartment buildings were stationed one after another, but each was thin enough that there was only one flat per floor. Craig’s was on the ground level, and as such, had his own front door.

They pulled up outside. Rain lashed the sidewalk like bullets. “We’ll have to make a run for it,” Craig said, keys already in hand. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

They bolted. Tweek squealed when he felt the rain hit his face and trickle down his neck. Thankfully, the path from car to door was not too arduous. Craig unlocked it and ushered him hastily inside.

They stood, panting, in the hallway. Craig’s dark hair had grown impossibly darker by the rain, sightly tousled now it was damp. He ran his hand through it, pushing it back from his eyes. “Well, we made it in one piece,” he said.

“Lucky us.” Tweek looked around and caught sight of a kitchen at the end of the hallway. From what he could see, it was relatively tidy. At least, it was not littered with coffee cups, like his own was.

“Can I take your coat?” Craig asked. The question seemed oddly formal, but Tweek accepted the invitation, handing him his sodden jacket and scarf, setting his bear down next to his boots. “I like your sweater,” Craig said, when he’d hung their coats up. The absence of his jacket had revealed a grey shirt and black suspenders, untouched by the rain. It suited him very finely.

“Thanks,” Tweek said, looking down at his knitted brown jumper. “It’s very cosy. Soft, too.” He looked at Craig through lowered lashes, and said timidly, “Here, feel it.” He pulled down his sleeve so that it went over his hand and held it out.

Craig stepped forward. His fingertips brushed the wool on Tweek’s arm. He traced gently up it to Tweek’s shoulder, then across his chest and to his hips. Craig’s hand slid around his waist and Tweek let himself be pulled closer.

The embrace felt so different from the one before, now the dark did not hide their faces. This new vulnerability made it feel as if this were the first time they’d met. “Um, hello,” Tweek said, as he gazed apprehensively upwards, heart pounding frantically in his chest. He wondered if Craig could feel his heartbeat pulsing through him.

“Hello,” Craig said, and an almost-but-not-quite laugh grazed his voice. He smiled as he looked tenderly down at him. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Tweek breathed, “Do.”

(***)

And so he did. He kissed slow and soft and sweet. It was enchanting. He tasted like cinnamon and apple cider, and holy fuck, this was so much better than Tweek had ever imagined. As they kissed, his hands found their way to Craig’s suspenders. He wound the elastic around his fingers and tugged a little, pulling Craig towards him, which in turn pushed him back, so that he was pressed against the wall. Craig took this as a queue to let his own hands wander from the small of Tweek’s back to his ass. He lingered there, then tracked up to his back again and found where his belt was. His fingers hooked inside the top of his pants and untucked Tweek’s sweater, brushing bare skin. Tweek flinched at the contact.

Craig pulled away. “Sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Tweek interrupted sharply, “I like it.” Already the absence of his touch was too much to bear. He wanted to feel him pressed against him once more – no, he needed to. “Do it again.”

“Okay,” Craig smiled. In one swift movement, he was kissing him again. His hands snaked around Tweek’s hips and found the opening he had made at the back between sweater and belt. His fingertips traced circles on Tweek’s skin underneath. It sent delicious shivers up his spine.

Tweek’s own hands, meanwhile, had developed a mind of their own. They had worked their way down the suspenders to the top of Craig’s pants. They slipped lower and rubbed against his crotch, earning a soft moan from Craig. He did it again, and Craig stumbled back.

“Fuck,” he panted.

“Was that okay?” Tweek asked worriedly. “Was that too far?”

“I—no! God, no,” Craig said. “That was, uh…” He glanced up the hallway, then back to Tweek. “Do you want to, um… relocate?”

“That depends,” Tweek traced his fingers down the centre of Craig’s chest. His hand made it back to Craig’s pelvis, and hovered there, in tantalising temptation. He did not have to touch him to know how hard he was. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Bedroom.” It was not a question anymore. “Now.” He took Tweek by the hand and pulled him down the hallway, past the kitchen and living room, and through another door. The room was relatively small, compared to the rest of the place. Craig’s bed was tucked against one wall, duvet folded at the middle, so that it hung slightly off the end of the bed. A window above it looked out into the back garden. Raindrops hammered against the glass with a sense of desperation. Craig let go of him only to draw the curtains, before taking him in his arms again, pushing him so his legs pressed up against the end of the bed. No longer did Craig kiss soft and slow, but hard and fast, like he was ravenous.

Tweek felt for the buttons at the bottom of Craig’s now untucked shirt and began working his way up them, undoing them one by one. When it was fully undone, he slid his hands from Craig’s bare chest to his shoulders, pushing it and the suspenders off.

Craig gathered up a handful of the hem of Tweek’s sweater from each side, and they broke their kiss so that Tweek could put his arms up, to allow for it to be pulled off him. He felt his watch come off with it and didn’t even care. Craig moved to undo his olive-green shirt but paused.

“What?” Tweek asked.

“Your buttons aren’t done up properly. Right here.” Craig slid a finger in the gap formed by the mismatch.

“Oh,” Tweek whispered, partly as a reaction to this observation, and partly as a reaction to the touch.

“Don’t worry,” Craig said coyly, “I’ll fix it for you.” He undid the buttons, from top to bottom, and as he moved lower, he sank down, and carried on undoing Tweek’s belt, as well. 

Tweek knew what was coming, but the feeling of Craig’s hand around his cock still made him buckle at the knees and topple backwards onto the bed with a soft moan. 

Craig bent over him. “Fixed it,” he smirked. 

Tweek put his hands on Craig’s shoulders and pulled. He had not been expecting him to do this, and caught off guard, he lost his balance. Tweek felt the glorious weight of Craig’s body on top of his.

Craig propped himself up on his elbows. “Jeez, you’re stronger than you look.” He bent down and began to bite and suck at Tweek’s neck. Another moan escaped Tweek’s lips. 

Tweek undid the button of Craig’s pants and slid it off, along with his boxers. Tweek wriggled upwards so that Craig could pull the duvet over him, before slipping under as well. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a really long time,” Craig said.

“Really? Since when?”

“I mean, since I first met you, I guess,” Craig murmured. He ran his hand along Tweek’s thigh, sending tingles shooting up it. “And then increasingly more, the more time we spent together.”

“I thought—” Tweek began but gasped as Craig began to stroke his cock. He steeled himself and continued, “I thought you hated me when we first met. I thought you were kind of scary.”

Craig stopped. “Really?” he asked with concern. “You did?”

“No, it’s alright,” Tweek said hastily. “Obviously, you didn’t hate me.” He paused, then added, “Plus, you being intimidating, that’s—that’s hot. Really, really fucking hot.”

“Oh yeah?” Craig grinned. His hand found its place once more. “You like that about me?”

“Yeah,” Tweek said, voice a little strained. “I do.”

“What else do you like about me?”

Tweek bit his lip as Craig carried on caressing his cock. A mounting pressure was building at the base of his spine. He would have loved to spout something poetic about the complexities and enigmas of Craig’s mind, but he was just a little too distracted right now to form such a coherent thought. “Your, ah, hair,” he said instead. It made him want to run his hands through it, and so he did, half expecting the colour to rub off on his fingers, like ink stains. “And—and your face. How many sharp edges there are. And—" He broke off, and his ability to form full sentences left him. “I—Fuck— You’re— If you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

Craig picked up the pace. “What?” He teased. “You’re gonna what, exactly?”

Tweek never got a chance to answer his question. He moaned Craig’s name and bucked at the hips, eyes rolling back and eyelids fluttering. His orgasm was every bit as intense as it was fantastic, and it consumed him entirely, body and mind.

As he came back down, he collapsed against Craig’s chest, panting. Craig adjusted his position, sitting against the headboard and wrapping an arm around Tweek’s shoulder. Tweek looked down at Craig’s hand resting on him and recalled how he’d fantasised about planting tiny kisses upon each knuckle. He took his hand and did so, softly, one by one.

Craig watched him do this with a glint in his eye, like he’d won some sort of competition between them. 

“What?” Tweek asked.

“You admitted you think I’m hot,” Craig said mischievously. “That must be so embarrassing for you.”

“Shut up!” Tweek shoved his hand away with playful indignation. He’d got his breath back now and grinned at him slyly. “I ought to take you down a peg or two.” 

“Go ahead,” Craig snorted, “But I warn you, I’ve got stamina.”

Tweek was not one to back down from that sort of challenge. He slithered from his position and slipped under the covers. He took Craig in his mouth. He heard with satisfaction the groan this elicited. It had been a while since he’d done this, but he’d not forgotten the technique he’d developed and perfected. His gag reflex was as dull as ever, which was also a feature he took full advantage of.

“Oh, you bastard,” he heard Craig murmur. “That is—That is so cheating.” He dipped his arms beneath the duvet and curled his fingers around Tweek’s blond locks as his head bobbed.

Tweek did not let up until he felt Craig’s grip on his hair pull taught. He heard his deep moan, louder than he expected, but was ready to swallow his come as he came. 

Victorious, Tweek remerged from beneath the covers. He propped himself up against the headboard and gave Craig a once-over. “Gosh,” he put his hands to his chest dramatically and widened his eyes, “I just made you come in… what was it?” He mimed checking where his watch would be. “Less than a minute? You must be so embarrassed right now.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Craig panted. “You’re—How the hell did you—”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Tweek gloated, nestling contentedly into the comfort of Craig’s warm, firm body. 

Craig looked at him incredulously. “Seriously, though.” 

“Practice,” Tweek admitted, “Mostly just practice.”

Craig studied him, as if from a new perspective. A slow, coy smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said. “I guess I’ll just have to practice some more, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Reference to body dysmorphia; Irregular eating; That god-awful Punch and Judy show (is that just a British thing?? I hope not); Sex scene - easily skippable, look for (***) as a marker to stop reading.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay listen I know this was uploaded a day later than scheduled but TECHNICALLY it was only 12:30 am on a Sunday so it was really only thirty minutes late! Right guys? Right?? I've had a very hectic week (an absolutely delightful combo of exams and family drama) and that meant finding time to write was not easy. I wrote the final five thousand words in one sitting, then edited it to the best of my ability, only to find the formatting had fucked up when I tried to paste it from my word doc into AO3 and it added an extra line break between each paragraph which I then had to go and manually delete, one by one, and... ugh.
> 
> Though I gripe, I really am enjoying writing this - hopefully as much as you're enjoying reading this, haha! Well, not this bit specifically, but... you know what I mean. As always, please do let me know your thoughts in the comments below. The feedback so far has been lovely! It gives me so much motivation to keep going, so thank you all for your kudos and your kind words :)
> 
> Anyway, you're not here to listen to me complain about my poor time management skills, you're here for the angst and the angst alone (Yeah, I know what you're into ;) So, here goes...

After much deliberation, Kyle decided to stay at his parent’s house overnight for Shabbat. Normally, he only spent the first meal with his family, but he found he was overcome by a wave of nostalgia as soon as he stepped in the door, accompanied by the feeling of coming home for the first time in years. He reminded himself this was irrational – he was here every Friday night.

He could not deny that this sensation was sparked in part by his argument with Stan. Their falling out had reminded him that although things had certainly got more interesting since he’d agreed to join the case, they had also got complicated. A lot more complicated. He was not entirely sure this was a good thing. Life before had been secure – tedious, in some ways, but secure. He had a stable job, a stable future, and most importantly, a stable mind. Lately, nothing felt stable anymore. Life seemed stuck in a state of permanent, inescapable chaos. But tonight, at least, he could take comfort in a little corner of familiarity. No matter what, Shabbat with his family would always be the same. The mundanity and predictability gave him time to gather his thoughts and piece himself back together.

Kyle slept in his old bedroom. He found it was exactly the same, untouched since he’d moved out for law school all those years ago. Everything stayed, right where he left it. It was like stepping inside a museum dedicated to his childhood. The same magazine clippings on the wall. The same books upon the shelf. The same toy soldiers lined up along the desk. But as carefully preserved as it was, there was something off. Something didn’t feel right. The walls were closer together, the ceiling lower, everything faded around the edges.

Time, he realised. Time had sucked the life from the room. That was one thing that could never be preserved, he thought glumly. Life.

Kyle had a hard time sleeping that night. He had felt exhausted all throughout dinner, but the moment his head hit the pillow, his brain began whirring a million miles an hour. He played and replayed the events with Stan and Wendy to the point that when at last he fell asleep, he dreamt of it, too.

He was back in Wendy’s office, but the room had grown to the size of a warehouse. A tornado raged inside the room, tearing files off the shelves, and sending flocks of loose paper spiralling about the place. The sound was deafening. He had this vague sense that he needed to get to the eye of the hurricane, as if somehow all the answers he sought were tucked inside. He brought his arms up to shield his face as he fought against the wicked winds, barraged by books and bric-a-brac that had been swept up in the gale. Each page that past him sliced at his skin. Each pen drew a ragged red line. Blood ran down his arms like a waterfall.

And then he made it to the eye of the hurricane, and everything grew deathly quiet. He found, smack-bang in the very centre, Stan. He was lying, flat on his back on the hardwood desk, arms crossed over his chest like a Pharaoh. At first, Kyle thought he was in a deep, rigid sleep. When he took a step closer, however, he saw that Stan’s eyes were open. Glazed. Unfocused. Empty. He realised, with a sense of detachment, that Stan was dead.

Kyle cupped his face in his hands. His skin was as cold as ice, and clammy. When he drew back, he saw he had left a bloody handprint on each cheek. He tried to wipe it away, but only succeeded in staining him further, so instead he shifted his attention to Stan’s hands. Gently, Kyle picked each up by the wrist, again leaving a bloody bracelet around it. Beneath where his arms had been, was a single bullet hole, on the right side of his chest. Kyle was not surprised. It was as if he had expected it to be there. As if it were inevitable.

Perhaps there’s still some breath left in him, Kyle thought reservedly. His fingers brushed the wound. It must have pierced his lung. Kyle leant down and put his ear to Stan’s chest, to hear his final words.

Distantly, a voice called. Muffled, but it was definitely there. He strained to pick it up, to make out what exactly it was saying. With some difficulty, he discerned one word: ‘hiding.’ Then, another, which possessed the familiar intonation of his name. He presumed it to be just that. The next, was perhaps ‘last’ – or was it something else? Glassed? No, Past?

“What?” he murmured, pressing his head harder into Stan’s chest. “What were you trying to say?”

“I said you can’t spend all day hiding under the covers, Kyle, it’s past noon.”

Kyle’s eyelids drifted open. A figure was looming over him, blurry. He blinked, and it came into focus. It was his mother.

“Mom?” he said blearily. “What… what are you doing here?”

“This is my house, Kyle,” Sheila snorted, “I’ve lived here for twenty-five years.” Despite this, her Jersey accent was as thick as ever. She leant over his bed and drew open the curtains. Violently bright light streamed in, as if heavenly floodgates had been opened.

Kyle groaned and pulled the duvet over his eyes. “Mom! Stop!”

She did not, of course. This was a routine revived from childhood, precisely how he had been begrudgingly awoken every school morning. Apparently, he could not escape the damned ritual, even now.

“Why are you doing this?” He whined, flipping onto his stomach, and burying his head beneath the pillow. “I’m an adult, Mom, you don’t get to tell me when to get up anymore.”

Sheila tutted, “I do when you’re under my roof.”

“That’s not fair! I know my rights!”

“No, you don’t.”

Kyle removed the pillow to scowl at her. “Do you have to take every opportunity to remind me of that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she tutted, but Kyle knew she did. She had been alluding to his failure of law school, four years prior, a scar on his otherwise flawless record which she never ceased to remind him of.

Reluctantly, Kyle hauled himself upright. “Why are you doing this?” he asked again.

“Your cousin Kyle is coming over in an hour,” she said, “With Uncle Mort and Auntie Deborah. You ought to be presentable.”

Kyle groaned inwardly. He was not in the mood to put up with extended family. “I can’t stay,” he said, and Sheila gave him an incredulous look. Kyle fumbled for an excuse. “I’m—Um, Stan is coming over to mine.”

“Who?”

Dammit. Kyle had planned to keep Stan’s name out of his mouth around his mother, for she had an irritating habit of showing far too much interest in his life. But it had been the first thing that surfaced in his sea of bleary thoughts, and he’d said it out loud now, so he had no choice but to stick to his story. “A friend. I’m helping him with—a problem of his.” Kyle swung his legs out of bed and stood up.

“What sort of problem?” Sheila asked, but Kyle was already out the bedroom door and safely in the bathroom. When he was younger, Kyle would often quietly and expertly vanish when a conversation arose that he did not want to have. It frustrated his mother to no end, which was why he did it now.

He knew he should be kinder to her, really. She was only looking out for him. But that was what was so exasperating – she treated him as if he were still eight years old, in need of the watchful eye, lest he get himself into trouble. But he was not eight, he was twenty-five, and he did not need his mom to solve his problems for him.

Kyle had a speedy shower and made a rapid retreat, eager to avoid a run-in with a relative. He knew if he bumped into his cousin Kyle, he would inevitably be dragged into a mind-numbing conversation that even he would struggle to evade.

Traffic at noon on a Saturday, it turned out, was an equally excruciating fate. His stomach kept him company as he drummed on the steering wheel, growling, and gurgling away. It was starting to feel as if it were digesting itself. He wished he had found the time to grab some breakfast before bolting.

His mind drifted, as it always did when left to its own devices, to Stan. Kyle was struck with a pang of guilt over how he had spoken to him the day before. Perhaps he had been too harsh. Perhaps he ought to call when he got home and apologise.

No, Kyle thought with indignation. Why apologise? He had done nothing wrong, said nothing with spite or malice. All he had told him was the truth.

“Oh, God dammit!” he exclaimed, slamming the steering wheel. Could he not go five minutes without thinking about Stan? Somehow everything always led back to him. He talked about him, thought about him, dreamt about him. He was everywhere. What had he even thought about, before they’d met? Kyle could not remember anymore. He could not remember, because every time he tried to form a new train of thought, it would chug along the U-turn tracks and head straight back to Stan.

Kyle resolved to make it through the rest of the day without sparing him another thought.

Unsurprisingly, he did not succeed. 

Kyle arrived home to find mail on the doormat of his apartment. He bent down curiously and picked it up. It was rare to get anything other than bills through his door, but neither of these appeared to be of that dreaded variety. The first was a smallish package, the second, an envelope. Kyle chucked them on his kitchen counter to be dealt with after he’d gorged himself on a late breakfast.

After satiating his hunger, Kyle decided to open the package first, for it was the more interesting of the two. He found his letter opener in a drawer and ran it carefully under the flap. He reached inside and his hand closed on what felt like was a book, but as he did so, a leaf of loose paper fluttered out. Kyle picked it up and studied it. It looked to have been torn from a narrow notebook. The handwriting was neat and loopy.

_‘Dear Kyle,_

_I wanted to apologise for my outburst yesterday. It was inappropriate and uncalled for. I hope you can understand, given the circumstances, why I did so, but of course it does not excuse the behaviour. I was deeply distressed and said a lot of things in the heat of the moment which, in hindsight, I regret. I’m concerned that I’ve dragged you into an argument which you do not deserve to be brought into. I hope you can forgive me._

_Sincerely,_

_Wendy Testaburger’_

Kyle stared at the letter, flabbergasted. An apology. From Wendy. Though her note had been a little stiff and formal, he did get the impression that it was genuine. He was shocked, but it occurred to him that he shouldn’t be, really. To apologise was the decent thing to do. It demonstrated a level of emotional maturity which a certain someone did not possess.

This ‘certain someone’ was Stan, of course, and this got Kyle thinking about him all over again, despite his oath not to. He wondered vaguely if the other note was a twin letter of apology from Stan but knew this was not the case. Stan would never discuss the incident with Wendy again unless forced to, and even then, he would never apologise for what he’d done. Despite Wendy’s apparent regret at the accusations she had made the day before, she had got one thing dead on: Stan just could not admit that he was wrong. Kyle considered displaying the letter to him like a trophy, to see if he could coax his competitive streak to triumph over his stubbornness. Perhaps, once seeing that Wendy could stoop so low, he would too, just to spite her.

But Kyle knew in his heart that this was one thing he would never be showing Stan. It would hurt him too much. Kyle could never do that to him.

He set the note down on the kitchen counter and returned to the actual parcel. It was odd that Wendy might have included a book with her apology, but perhaps it was a token of reconciliation. The note did not mention it at all, though, which was strange. Kyle reached inside the package and tugged the contents out. It came out with the back cover up, and so he flipped it over to read the title.

_‘Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male,’ by Alfred Kinsey_

Kyle dropped the book like it was on fire. He stumbled back and stared around with an almost feral expression, as if someone might leap out from behind his furniture and accuse him of being bisexual then and there.

The book gazed up at him expectantly from the floor. It did not seem to have any plan of attack, but Kyle’s panic was not quelled.

"What the fuck?” he whispered. His heart pounded in his ears. “What the actual fuck?” What kind of sick mind game was Wendy trying to play? Just what the hell was she implying?

Kyle swallowed down the bile that was rising in his throat. The breakfast, which only minutes ago had been a welcome meal, curdled in his stomach.

He took a few shaky breaths and tried to calm himself. Wendy had probably just sent him a copy because he’d shown interest in the study when she’d mentioned it yesterday. Yeah, that was it. She had simply identified his intellectual curiosity and sought to satisfy it.

The book continued to gaze at him from the floor. Kyle realised with a sense of disarray that it could not remain there forever. He considered throwing it out, maybe even burning it, but this was more for show than a real consideration. He would absolutely be reading it, now he had a copy. He would devour each and every page.

What to do with it now, though? He could not simply put it on his bookshelf. What if someone read the spine? They would surely have questions, questions which Kyle dreaded to think what the answers might be. He wondered, through his haze of panic, if it would be alright if he put it backwards on the shelf, so that the spine was hidden and the edges of the pages showing. If he put it in the bottom corner, between two books of similar colours, it might blend in fine. No one would notice. Probably.

Then, a different thought struck him.

He bent, and picked up the book, carrying it pressed to his chest, as if it might struggle to leap out his arms and escape. He took it into his bedroom and, with great care, tucked it safely under his pillow. There! No one would go snooping in his bed, now would they? If they did, then Kyle who’d be entitled to ask a few questions of his own.

Kyle backed away slowly, eyes fixed on his bed, like the book might slither from its hiding place if he wasn’t careful. He shut the door but lingered, clutching the brass doorknob so hard his knuckles bleached white. What he had in there was dangerous and potentially damning. It made him feel sick just thinking about it. It also gave him a little thrill. Finger by finger, he released his grip. He returned to the kitchen, to open the other envelope. He hoped it would not be as exciting. Unfortunately, it was.

_‘Kyle. I know what you’re up to.’_

Kyle’s stomach dropped. What a lovely way to start a letter. He scanned the rest with growing alarm, and then reread it several times. Kyle realised he was just going round in circles, fixating on every word. So, he did the only thing he could think to do, which coincidentally was the only thing he’d been thinking about all day.

Against his better judgement, he phoned Stan.

Stan picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Stan,” Kyle said, “Listen to this, tell me—”

“Wait, Kyle?” He sounded shocked.

Kyle tutted. “Yes, it’s me. Obviously.”

“Oh. I—I wasn’t sure if you’d—I didn’t think that—” Stan cleared his throat and regained his composure. “I wasn’t expecting you to call until Monday.”

“Yes, well, things have changed. Listen to this note I got through the door this morning: ‘Kyle. I know what you’re up to.’” Kyle heard a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. He continued. “I have information on Police Chief Eric Cartman that I believe you will find relevant to your case. Meet me at 1808 Banders Street, Floor 8, Apartment 16 at 10:00 tonight. Come alone.”

There was a momentary silence as the message sank in. “That’s it?” Stan asked after a beat of silence. “That’s all it says?”

Kyle flipped it over, but the page was blank on the other side. “That’s it.”

Stan let out a low whistle. “Well, shit,” he said.

Kyle hummed in agreement. “So what do you make of it?”

“Well, obviously going alone is a bad idea.”

“So you think I should go, then?”

“Well…” Stan clicked his tongue. “Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t think we’re in a position to pick and choose which leads we chase after, considering this is our only one.”

Kyle bit back the urge to remind him that it didn’t have to be the only one. He didn’t want to rekindle yesterday’s argument. “So you’ll come with me then?”

There was a short, tentative pause. “I mean—Yes. Is that not okay?”

“Yes!” Kyle said hastily, “I mean, no, of course that’s alright.” He let out the breath he’d been holding, “I was hoping you’d suggest that, actually. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to go alone anyway. I think—” he stopped and considered his words. “It’ll be nice to have you by my side.” Kyle wished he could see Stan’s face to gauge his reaction.

“Kyle,” Stan said slowly, “You know—You know I would never let anyone hurt you, right? You know I would never let that happen.”

Kyle was caught off guard by the pangs of sincerity in his voice. “Bold of you to assume I’m the one who needs protecting,” he snorted, sidestepping any obligation for a reciprocation of vulnerability. “Speaking of which, should I bring a gun, or something?”

“You have a gun?” Stan squawked.

“It’s only a pistol – and not out of choice!” Kyle defended. “It’s a dangerous city, Stan. A city which doesn’t always take kindly to… my sort. I never know when I might need it.”

“Would you use it?” Stan asked bluntly. “Would you shoot someone, if you had to?”

Kyle thought about this. Would he? Could he? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I… I don’t know.”

“Good,” Stan said curtly. “Keep it that way. Don’t bring it.”

“Is that really wise?” Kyle said. “I mean, for all we know, we could be walking straight into a trap.”

“Kyle, if I had a nickel for every time, I’ve talked myself out of a corner when a situation got sticky, do you know how many nickels I’d have?”

“No. How many?”

“At least four. That’s a lot of nickels, Kyle. Twenty cents. Do you have any idea what that sort of money can buy?”

Kyle rolled his eyes, “I think you’re taking this metaphor too far.”

“Look, what I’m trying to say is don’t bring the gun, Kyle. I don’t kill. If you’re working with me, that means you don’t either.”

“You’re the boss,” Kyle sighed.

“Oh I am, am I?” Kyle could hear the smirk in Stan’s voice from all the way down the line. “Is that an official title? Do I get to lord that over you now? Assert my superiority?"

Kyle was not completely against the idea of Stan ‘asserting his superiority,’ but not in the context of the case. “You’re insufferable,” Kyle grumbled, “You know that? Insufferable.”

“And yet you continue to suffer through me,” Stan mused. “Perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.”

Kyle sputtered out something unintelligible. “Oh, never mind,” he huffed. “I’ll pick you up at quarter past nine.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

Kyle put down the receiver. He returned to the note, rereading it for the millionth time. It struck him that something about the handwriting was vaguely familiar. Try as he might, though, he could not place who’s pen it might belong to. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

\---

1808 Banders Street turned out to be located in a dingy, dodgy little part of town. This location did not bode well for the night ahead. Stan and Kyle made their way down a dank, narrow corridor on the 8th floor. Kyle’s hand brushed the wall and he reared back, shaking it vigorously at the wrist in disgust. The wall was cold, damp, and clammy. Wallpaper bubbled at the top. The sensation was not unlike touching the skin of Stan’s corpse had in his dream. Kyle pushed the grim thought out of his head.

They halted outside the door marked ’16.’ A sense of dread descended upon him. He had resolved to bring his pistol, despite Stan’s warnings, but had kept it hidden from him in the glove box in his car. He wished he had it on him now.

“Okay,” Stan whispered, “Here’s the plan. You’ll knock on the door, and I’ll stand to the side. That way, if whoever’s inside looks through a peephole, all he’ll see is you. He’ll think you’re alone.”

“What happens after he opens the door?” Kyle hissed back, “Won’t he see you then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“We’ve literally come to it! We’re at the base of that bridge right now.” Kyle rubbed his hands together nervously. “I think we should have some sort of a coherent backup plan just in case things go awry.”

“The backup plan is ‘try not to die.’”

“That’s a terrible backup plan!”

“Well it’s worked so far, hasn’t it? Neither of us are dead yet.”

“That’s a logical fallacy, you—”

Stan rapped on the door before he could finish his complaint. He darted to the side, pressing his back to the corridor wall, and gave Kyle a thumbs up.

Kyle shot him a dirty look in return. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and straightened his trench coat. He took a deep breath.

No amount of deep breathing could have prepared him for who was behind that door.

He heard a scraping sound, and then a creak. The light from the peephole winked out as an eye was put to it. A soft gasp could be heard from the other side.

“Kyle! You came!”

That voice. Kyle’s stomach dropped. Oh, God, that voice. He knew that voice. The colour drained from his face. He wanted to run, to hide, but every muscle in his body had tense to the point where he was frozen to the spot, immovable.

With a click of a lock and a clunk of a bolt being slid back, the door swung open. The ghost of his past shot out like a bullet and wrapped her arms around him.

“I was worried you wouldn’t—I thought maybe—But you did! You came!” She cupped his face in her hands and looked up at him. “God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“You have,” Kyle said in scarcely a whisper. “Your hair.” He reached out and touched a caramel brown strand, which fell in a smooth arc around her round cheek and ended at her jaw. “It’s… shorter.”

“I got it cut,” she beamed. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

Kyle swallowed, mouth dry. It did. Fuck, it looked so good. But it wasn’t just her hair that had changed. Everything had. Her smile was wider. Her eyes sparkled. She held herself differently, more upright, and bounced on the balls of her feet with an effervescence she had not possessed before. She’d put on weight, too, and it suited her well. Kyle found his gaze drifting down to her breasts but caught himself quickly. They were as fantastic as ever. Kyle might have been relieved to be reminded of his attraction to the fairer sex (a comforting reassurance in the midst of his identity crisis), but not her. Oh, God, not her. 

“Okay, right,” Stan detached from his position against the wall. He had held his tongue as long as he could bare, which was not at all an impressive amount of time. “What the hell is going on here? Kyle, do you know her?”

She looked a little disappointed to see that Kyle was not alone, as requested, but quickly recovered. She took a step into the hallway and stuck out a hand. Stan took it tentatively. Her shake was firm and enthusiastic. “I’m Heidi,” she said, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Stan,” said Stan. He looked to Kyle for a further explanation.

“Ex-girlfriend!” he blurted. He cleared his throat and tried to scrape together some semblance of composure. “Um, Heidi is my ex-girlfriend.” As he uttered these words, the magnitude of the situation finally hit him. He let out a breath like he’d been punched in the gut.

This was quite the revelation for Stan, too. His jaw went slack, and he looked between the two like Kyle had just announced they were both secretly German spies. “You—You and her—She’s your—” He blinked several times, then looked back to Kyle. “How long since—”

“Four years,” Kyle cut him off. “It’s been four years.” His eyes were fixed firmly on Heidi, unable to look away, his sense of dread mounting. “I—I shouldn’t be here. I can’t be here.” He began to back away slowly. “I don’t know how you found out about the case, or why you thought it would be a good idea to pull such a dirty trick with the note, but—”

“It wasn’t a trick!” Heidi exclaimed. “I really do have information for you.”

He shook his head. “No. This is not happening. This is not going to be a thing. Not after—” He stopped himself. “Look, I—I have to go.” He turned and began making his way determinedly down the hallway. Don’t look back, he thought to himself. He knew that if he looked back, he might not—

“Pip Pirrup is alive.”

Kyle looked back.

Heidi was standing in the middle of the hallway, hands on her hips. “Pip Pirrup is alive, and I know where to find him.”

“What?” Stan whispered. “He’s—he’s what?”

Heidi’s face was grave. She looked to Kyle, “I think you’d better come in.”

Kyle sighed resolutely. I will not pull a Stan Marsh, he thought to himself. On behalf of this God forsaken case, and to satisfy my curiosity, I will sacrifice my dignity. “I suppose we better had,” he said. Stan squeezed his arm as he returned, a simple gesture of support. Kyle meant to smile appreciatively at him, but it came out more like a grimace. At least I have Stan by my side, he thought. That was some comfort.

They were led into Heidi’s kitchen. It was a little chaotic. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and cupboards were not quite closed properly. A stack of picture books sat on the counter, but a ratty stuffed animal and wooden toy train sitting on top of it obscured the titles.

Heidi sat at the kitchen table, and Stan and Kyle took their places on the opposite side. Kyle was already starting to sweat. He took off his trench coat and hung it on the back of his chair.

Stan pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

Heidi sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Actually, I do,” she said apologetically. “I’m, uh, babysitting my neighbour’s kid at the moment.” She nodded in the direction of a hallway, “He’s asleep in there.”

Stan shrugged and put his pack back.

“Heidi, how did you even know Stan and I were working this case to begin with? And how did you find my address to send the letter?”

“It’s the same, from when I sent you that letter, a few years ago.”

“Oh.” That letter. The one with the long, heartfelt apology, for what had happened between them in college. The one he’d never responded to. “Well, how did you find my address back then?”

“I found you in the address book,” Heidi said, “There’s not exactly a wealth of Kyle Brovlovskis in South Park.”

“I didn’t even know you were still in South Park,” Kyle murmured. “I thought… After you dropped out, I thought—”

“Well, I did,” Heidi said quickly. “I stuck around.” She licked her lips nervously, “In answer to your other question, I overheard you at the Gazette yesterday.”

“You work at the Gazette?” Kyle asked in surprise.

“I clean the offices,” Heidi corrected him. She laughed, “Not exactly the bigshot lawyer I was planning on being, am I?”

“Why did you leave?” The question slipped off Kyle’s tongue without his control. Heidi looked at him in dismay, and he hastily amended his question. “Not me! I mean, why did you leave law school?” He ran his finger along a crack in the wood of the table. “I get it might have been awkward, seeing me around campus, but… we only had a one semester left.”

Heidi looked away. “I don’t want to get into that right now,” she said.

Kyle did. But he also wanted to keep things civil. He knew if they started unpicking their past, they’d only start to argue, and then that would be the end of any potential truce between them. Much as she appeared to have changed, he did not trust that she wouldn’t turn ugly if things got heated. “Right,” he said, “Fine, okay.” He sat back, but the chair was too uncomfortable, so he leant forward again. “Tell us about Pip, then.”

Heidi took a breath before she began. “How much do you know about Eric’s… methods of arrest?” she asked.

Stan and Kyle exchanged glances. Eric. She had called him Eric. No one called him that.

“How do you mean, ‘methods of arrest?’” Stan asked guardedly.

Heidi decided beating around the bush would get her nowhere. “He plants drugs on perps to incriminate them. He makes his underlings to do so, too.”

“Token mentioned that,” Kyle snapped his fingers, “When Cartman and his cronies raided his bar, they arrested two of his patrons and a waitress for possession of narcotics. He said he saw one of the cops slip a little bag of white powder into her pocket.”

“So what does that have to do with Pip?” Stan asked.

“Well,” Heidi cocked an eyebrow at him, “Where do you think he gets those little bags of white powder?”

Stan’s eyes went wide. “Pip was Cartman’s dealer?”

“Bingo,” Heidi said. “Before Pip, Eric never had a regular supplier. But then Pip showed up, and since his rates were lower and he was reliable and friendly, Eric became a regular. They became friends, too, got real close.”

“But what actually happened, then?” Stan asked. “If Pip’s still alive? If Cartman didn’t kill him?”

“Oh, he didn’t kill him,” Heidi said, “But he certainly wanted to.”

So Kyle hadn’t been totally wrong in his theory, then. Cartman was a killer – well, a potential one, anyway. “Why?” Kyle asked. “If they were such good friends? What went wrong?”

“What went wrong was Cartman found out the truth about who Pip was.”

“And what was that?”

“An investigative journalist.”

Kyle took in a sharp breath. “Really?”

Heidi gave him an incredulous look. “You really think you two are the first to try to expose this corruption? It’s been done before, Kyle. It didn’t work out too well.”

Kyle gulped.

“There’s something you need to understand. The whole planting drugs thing, that was never Cartman’s idea. That had been going on since before he was born. The old chief had him managing the deals because he knew Cartman could stomach it.” She paused, “That’s why he became his successor, I think. He knew he would keep the tradition alive.”

“So Pip didn’t just find dirt on Cartman,” Stan breathed, “He found it on the whole damn force?”

“Pretty much,” Heidi nodded.

Stan whistled. “So what happened next?” Kyle had no idea how he was keeping so cool. He himself was sweating buckets. But Stan did had the advantage of not being in a room with his ex-girlfriend right now.

“Well, Pip got wind that his cover was blown,” she said. “So, he faked his death, framed Cartman for it, and skedaddled back to England.”

“He framed Cartman!” Kyle cried in disbelief. “You mean, he really was innocent?” He was astounded.

Heidi’s face darkened. “Eric is a lot of things, Kyle, but innocent is not one of them. In this instance, sure, he didn’t kill him, but only because he wasn’t quick enough.”

“The evidence,” Stan said, “The dirt Pip got, what happened to it? He didn’t publish it, I presume?”

“He didn’t get the chance to. His exit was a hasty one, and he knew if he gave it to anyone else to publish, they might find themselves at the wrong end of a revolver.”

“So what did he do with it?”

Heidi sighed. “I don’t know. I know it’s still out there, though. He hid it, but I’ve no idea where.”

Stan grinned at his partner. “Kyle, if we could find it—It would be enough to put Cartman away for life!” He leant back, “And it would make the Police Department look real bad, too. Ruin their public image, expose the sham of ‘protecting the community’ for what it is – a sham. They’d have to do a rigorous investigation into the corruption in the system, bring in new shiny new laws, shiny new legislature, the works! Think of it,” he said, “Token would never be bothered again.”

Kyle was worried this was all too good to be true. “How exactly did you come to know all this, Heidi?”

Heidi gave him a pained expression. “I really don’t want to get into that,” she said.

“Are you kidding?” Kyle said indignantly. “You can’t just tell us half-truths. We need to know the full story if we’re ever going to figure out where he hid the evidence.”

“I’ve told you everything that’s relevant,” Heidi said defensively, “The rest is—is a personal matter.”

“A personal matter?” Kyle huffed. “If you wanted to avoid personal matters, I think you’ve gone about this in entirely the wrong way.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And just why are you telling us this anyway? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing!” Heidi cried, “Nothing at all.”

He scoffed, “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Not everything has to be a big conspiracy,” She squawked, “I’m not some scheming Jew!”

There was an excruciating silence.

Heidi put a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that,” she whispered. “Kyle, I didn’t mean—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he growled.

“You don’t understand—”

“What is there to understand, exactly?” he stood sharply. “No, please, do explain how ‘scheming Jew’ can be interpreted in a multitude of ways!” His voice was rising.

“Maybe if we just—” Stan began, but Kyle shot him a look so deadly that he clamped his mouth shut again. This was not his battle to fight.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion, Kyle,” Heidi crossed her arms, “It was a slip of the tongue!” She stood too, though she wasn’t much taller than she was when she was sitting down.

“But it’s not, is it?” Kyle threw his hands in the air, “You meant precisely what you said!” He shook his head in disgust. “This is exactly how things were before. I can’t believe that I thought for a second that you’d changed.”

“I have changed!” Heidi said furiously. “You have no idea how much I’ve changed these past three years, how much I’ve been through.”

“No. All you’ve got was a pretty new haircut and a pretty new smile. Deep down,” he jabbed a finger at her, “You’re still as much of a bitch as you always were.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” she raged. “Do you really think name calling is going to win you this argument?”

“I’m not the one who called me a ‘scheming Jew!’”

“I didn’t call you that! I only said—”

“Oh, no sorry, not me directly, just the entirety of my people.” He rolled his eyes, “Because that’s _so_ much better.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth!”

“Would you rather another direct quote?” Kyle asked sarcastically, “Would you like me to rattle off the list of all the endearing little nicknames you gave me in college?” He began to count on his fingers, “Jew, dirty Jew, dirty rotten Jew, Kike—”

“Stop it!” Heidi screamed, “Just stop it! I said I was sorry, I apologised for all those things years ago! But you have no idea what I was going through back then.”

“Oh, do enlighten me,” Kyle spread his arms, “Enlighten me to exactly what excuses that—”

“I’m not excusing anything,” Heidi began, “I just think—”

“Mommy?”

All three heads turned. In the doorway stood a little boy, of about four or five. He was dressed in striped pyjamas and was sucking his thumb, staring at them all suspiciously. “What’s going on?” A teddy bear was tucked under one arm.

He was the spitting image of Heidi.

Kyle gaped at him. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “Holy—” He switched to Hebrew, for the sake of the child.

All the ferocity in Heidi’s body and breath evaporated at once. “Go back to bed, Bobby,” she said gently, “Everything’s alright.”

“Who are they?” Bobby pointed to Stan and Kyle. “Why are you all so loud?”

“We were just getting a bit overexcited,” Heidi said, “We’re sorry if we woke you.”

Bobby took a sleepy step further into the kitchen, wobbling a little on his feet, to get a better look at Stan and Kyle.

Kyle had been staring at Bobby. He was every bit his mother’s son, and yet there was something else. A differing sense of familiarity about him. His hair was a darker brown than Heidi’s, cut in a neat fringe across his forehead. His face was rounder, lips thinner. But there was something else too. His eyes, the way they were set in his head. The way he scrutinised the strangers in his kitchen like he was the boss, the man of the house, who ought to have his authority respected, despite being only three feet tall. It reminded him of—

Kyle gasped. “Oh, Heidi,” he said. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

Heidi didn’t answer. She wouldn’t meet his eye. “Come on, Bobby,” she picked him up and positioned him on her hip. He moved his head so he could keep staring at Stan and Kyle. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Bobby,” Kyle said quickly, “How old are you?”

Heidi looked like she wanted to stop him, but he got there first. “Four and half!” he declared proudly.

“Four and a half,” Kyle echoed hollowly.

It all made sense. Things were fitting into place. The truth was finally revealed, and God, what a monstrous thing it was. His face grew hot. He felt ill, really ill. If he spent another second in this dingy little apartment, he might just vomit.

“What’s going on?” Stan asked as Heidi disappeared down the hallway to put Bobby to bed. He had yet to connect the dots, to see the bigger picture, the grim reality. “Kyle?”

But Kyle had already disappeared. 

Stan knew he ought to follow him. He knew it was the right thing to do, the noble thing to do. But his curiosity got the better of him. He had to know, he just had to, and his intuition told him that Kyle was not in the mood to entertain his endless questions. Stan felt guilty for making him wait in the car whilst he probed Heidi for answers, but he looked like he needed some time to digest what had happened anyway. Maybe he’d appreciate some time to cool off.

Stan lingered in the kitchen until Heidi returned. She started when she saw him but was not angry. She just looked tired.

“Heidi,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Don’t,” she sat down heavily, “Just don’t.” She put her head in her hands and stared numbly down at the tabletop.

Rain began to tap lightly on the windowpane. Stan succeeded in keeping his trap shut for precisely two seconds more before he tried again. He sat down opposite her, in Kyle’s now empty chair, “Look, Heidi—”

“Why are you still here, Stan?” She looked up at him, expression a portrait of anguish. “What do you want from me?”

“I just want to ask a question – just one question more. That’s it.”

She stared at him without saying anything for a moment. “Fine,” she said eventually. “One question.”

“What was it that made Kyle bolt?”

Heidi sighed. She did not reply.

“You said you’d answer one question. That’s my question.” Stan waited for her reply, but she gave none. “Listen, I know you don’t want to get into ‘personal’ subjects,” he made quotes in the air with his fingers, “but it really is important we know. If trying to take down Cartman is as dangerous as you said it is, then we need all the help we can get, and in my line of work, information is the truest form of help there is.”

Heidi still did not reply. She was a tough nut to crack.

Stan chewed the inside of his cheek. He lowered his voice a little, “Okay, I’m also asking because—for Kyle. I have to know for Kyle. So I can… understand him. Help him. I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair, feeling suddenly embarrassed, like he’d admitted something he shouldn’t.

At last, Heidi broke her terminal silence. “Kyle and I started dating during our first year of college,” she said in a voice so small that Stan had to lean in to pick it up. “In the early days, things were… nice. Simple. They felt right. We fit well.”

Heidi paused. Stan had done enough sleuthing to know that this was the of silence he shouldn’t fill. He would let them stretch until Heidi broke them herself.

“We would go to parties together, thrown by the older students. Well, we went together at first, but—I mean, Kyle’s not exactly a social butterfly. He obliged for our first year together, but when we got into our second, he gave up on it and let me go alone instead. I think… I guess this was bad, but I think I enjoyed myself more when I went alone. I felt freer. I drank more, and I smoked more, and I snorted more, and I didn’t have to worry about what Kyle would think of me.” She smiled sadly to herself. “Because that, at the time, was the worst thing I thought could happen – Kyle thinking badly of me. God, I was so naïve. I miss it, in a way. Naivety. But I suppose it was just that which meant—” Her smile vanished. She shifted in her seat, sitting up a little straighter. “After a while, I got bored of the parties thrown by law students, seeing the same faces every night. The drinks were good, the drugs were good, but the people were awfully bland. So, I started networking a little, and got myself into some more interesting places. A lot of the new parties—well, they had black folk there as well as white. Which didn’t bother me, of course. I was in search of fresh faces and I found them, I didn’t care about their colour.”

Heidi stopped to gauge Stan’s reaction to her story so far. He gave her a patient nod, and she continued, a little hesitantly.

“Then, one of the parties—a neighbour called the cops on us. Maybe it was because we were too loud. Maybe it was because he knew about the drugs, and the underage drinking.” Heidi’s face grew bitter, “Most likely it was just because he didn’t like white and black mixing.” She shook her head in contempt. “Anyway, the police arrive, and—Oh,” she cut herself off, “I should warn you, I was high out of my mind, so my memory’s kind of hazy. But I do remember… I think I was handcuffed. Handcuffed, and put in a car, by myself. It must have been a police car because I remember watching the red and blue flashing lights, and thinking they were the prettiest sight I ever did see. Then, a young man got in and started driving. I asked him where he was taking me, and he said the station. I freaked out then – sure, I was high, but I was still conscious enough to know that if my parents found out I got arrested, they’d pull me out of school like that,” Heidi snapped her fingers. “They could do that, you know, since they were paying my tuition. I’d had a hard enough time convincing them to let me study law in the first placed – they couldn’t see the point in someone like me becoming a lawyer. ‘A woman’s life should be spent caring for her children,’ they said, ‘No use wasting money on some fancy degree when you’ll only have to give up work for your future family.’ But I wore them down eventually. Still, they made it clear that if I put even one toe out of line, I’d be done. And getting arrested for possession and ingestion of narcotics? That’s not a toe, that’s the whole damn leg. I knew I had to do something."

Heidi grew quiet then. Stan waited for her to pick the story back up again, but she did not. The sound of the rain outside flooded the silence while her voice did not. “So what did you do?” he asked eventually.

Heidi seemed to shrink in her chair. “Well, I did the only thing a woman could do at a time like that. I—In exchange to be let off with only a warning, I—” She wrang her hands. “I did what I had to do.”

Stan’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he breathed, “Oh, Heidi, I’m so sorry.”

Heidi sighed, “Like I said, I don’t remember much. I guess I’m lucky, in that regard. I must have given him my number at the end of it, because the next day I got a call from him, asking to take me out to dinner. Well, he’s mixed up the procedures of wooing a woman, I thought! He’d got his reward already. But, like the naïve little girl I was, I agreed. I thought that was what I ought to do! And besides, I thought—I don’t know, I convinced myself that maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe he was a nice guy.”

“Were you still with Kyle, at the time?” Stan asked. He made a great effort to keep his tone judgement-free. He did not want to scare her into silence.

“Yes,” Heidi said miserably, “But things were different between us. We were more distant. I think… Even if things hadn’t ended so dramatically, they still would have ended eventually.” She began tapping her fingers rhythmically on the table, in time to the raindrops on the window. “So, I started seeing the officer more and more, behind Kyle’s back. There was just something about him, made me keep going back. He had this way of getting into my head, right from the start. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.” She stopped tapping and rubbed the back of her neck. “I spent more and more time with him, started skipping class. A lot of his opinions, about—about Jews, they rubbed off on me. I didn’t mean for them to, I really didn’t! But Kyle and I were going through such a rough patch that it was easy for him to manipulate me into taking his word as gospel. So easy.” She rubbed her temples, “God, I was so easy to manipulate. By our third year – law school has three years – things had gone from cold to red hot between Kyle and I. We would have these explosive arguments, and in the heat of the moment—Oh, I said such awful things to him. I was horrible. I’ll never forgive myself for it.” She looked up. “I apologised. A year or two later, after everything, I wrote him a letter. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye, I was too ashamed, so I just wrote him a letter, saying how sorry I was. He never wrote back. I think he could tell I was still hiding something. But, anyway,” she sighed, “I’m getting ahead of myself.” She went back to drumming her fingertips on the table. Each tap rang out like a small, quick heartbeat.

“How does Bobby fit into all this?” Stan was piecing together a theory, and he wanted to know if he was right.

“The officer and I, we, um, we slept together again. And again. And again. I don’t know when it started, but Kyle and I hadn’t… _you know_ , not for a while. I thought we were being safe about it, the officer and I, but I guess… I guess we weren’t, because sometime during first semester of year three, I got pregnant. I didn’t realise until—well, abortions are dangerous enough as it is, but by that point, it would have been too risky. When I told the officer I was pregnant, he freaked out, and dumped my sorry self. I told my parents, because there’s no use hiding a thing like that, and they got so angry that I’d been so irresponsible as to not wait until marriage that they cut me off. I never told Kyle, though, never breathed a word of it to him. I just finished up that semester and never came back, never told him why.” Heidi bit her lip, “At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it would hurt him too much if he knew the truth.” She laughed hollowly, “Like I said, naïve. I should have known the absence of honesty is always more painful. I was just being selfish. Just selfish and cowardly.”

Stan studied her carefully. The tension in her shoulders. The bags under her eyes. The fingers dancing on the table. She had not cried at all during this conversation, Stan realised with surprise. She looked too worn down to be able to.

“Heidi,” he said quietly, “That officer. His name. What was his name?” But he knew the answer before she even opened her mouth.

“Eric Cartman.” Heidi looked him dead in the eye. “But I suppose you already guessed that. Kyle certainly did.” She turned her head to stare wistfully down the hallway, towards Bobby’s bedroom. “He looks so much like him. Sometimes, I forget, and then I catch sight of it in the way he walks, or the way he talks, or how he watches folk—” She put a hand over her mouth and gasped. “Oh, I love him so much, but in those times… It’s scary. It’s almost terrifying, how similar they are.”

Stan could not begin to imagine how that might feel. “Are you—Are you and Cartman—Did you ever… Did you ever see each other again?”

“We got back together about six months later, give or take. I didn’t move in with him, but I was at his pretty much every other night, left Bobby sleeping peacefully with a babysitter. That was how I met Pip, how we became good friends. He’d hang around Eric’s apartment a lot. They were friends, but I also think… I do think that he stuck around when I came over because he wanted to protect me. Eric, he would—” She swallowed, “He would get nasty. Real, real nasty. Sometimes, he would—” she shuddered. “Well, I was glad for Pip’s company. He was always there, even on the rare days where I’d come over in the mornings, which was kind of strange, actually. Sometimes, I did wonder whether…” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s absurd. Never mind.”

Stan didn’t need her to finish that sentence because he’d already filled in the blanks. Cartman and Pip, sleeping together? It was possible. Stan cast his mind back to the pictures he’d seen of the young man: A lithe looking fellow with a youthful complexion and blond hair. Big, doe eyes. A sort of innocence about him. In a lot of ways, he reminded Stan of Butters. Perhaps Cartman had a type. Young, vulnerable, easy to prey on, easy to control. That certainly matched Heidi, too, or at least how she was when they first met. Too bad for Cartman that Pip hadn’t been so innocent after all.

That made him wonder something else, too. “Was it you who told Pip that Cartman was out to kill him?” he asked.

Heidi nodded. “It was. I came over one night, just after Eric had finished his shift. We had planned that I would stay over, but when I got there—he was enraged. He was like a wild animal. Deranged. Out of his mind, frothing at the mouth. It was terrifying. He started rambling to me about how he’d been betrayed, and seeking revenge, and I managed to piece together what had happened. I managed to calm him down, but I knew what he planned on doing. And the worst part was, I knew he would go through with it. Once he was asleep, I snuck out of the bedroom and called Pip. I told him everything, and he told me everything, too. God, I was so fucking scared.” The pain in her voice was unbearable. It broke Stan’s heart to hear. “There was only one paper-thin wall between Eric and me. If he had heard our conversation—” she took a shuddering breath. There was a beat of silence before she continued. “I broke things off with Eric for good, shortly after Pip disappeared. The whole ordeal was a real wake-up call. I’d always known Eric was a piece of work, of course, but I’d never thought about him being a monster to anyone else but me. But that night—What I saw in him—” She clenched her fists. “It was the push I needed to cut him off for good.”

“But it wasn’t for good, was it?” Stan said suddenly.

Heidi looked at him with alarm. “What?”

“Was it?”

“I—No, not completely,” she admitted slowly. “How did… how did you guess?”

“I have my ways.” In truth, something she had said reminded him of talking to Kenny in Skeeter’s, a few weeks ago. His memory of the night was strangely foggy, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he hadn’t even been drunk. He vaguely recalled Kenny mentioning that during his encounter with Cartman, he had been real pissed off about something—no, someone. ‘Some dame,’ Kenny had said. Heidi. It had to be Heidi.

Stan gestured for her to continue.

She gave him a suspicious glance but did so. “A few weeks ago, Eric knocked on my door. First time in years I’d seen him, and even when we were together, he never came to mine, not once. I didn’t want him around Bobby. I didn’t want him rubbing off on him.” Her expression soured. “And then Eric just showed up out of the blue. Started spouting all this shit about how much he missed me. How lost he was without me. He said he was gonna—gonna kill himself if I didn’t take him back.”

Stan took in a breath. “What did you do?”

“I slammed the door in his face,” Heidi said coldly. “And then the next day I went and bought some better locks.”

“That must have taken a lot of guts, to stand up to him,” Stan said. “I’m impressed,”

“Yeah,” Heidi let out a long breath, slowly, puffing up her cheeks. “It was scary, seeing him again. I’d worked so hard to move on from that part of my life. I’d broken myself down and built myself up again. I’d got new jobs and made new friends and finally made a life for myself that I was happy in. Everything he had shaped me to be, I’d undone, everything he’d taught me, I’d unlearnt. And then there it was, my old life, staring me right in the face again. Monstrous.” She grimaced, “I didn’t even have to think about slamming the door on him, I just did it. It was a gut reaction. But it was the right one.” Heidi glanced at the door. “Only now… Now I know he knows where we live. I don’t know how long he’s known, or how he found me, but…” She shivered, “I don’t feel safe here anymore. I’d like to move, but I can’t afford any other place but here.” She sighed and smiled melancholically. “Oh, well. I’ll survive. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Stan looked at Heidi sadly. He wanted so badly to hate her. He wanted to stand up and scream and shout that no amount of tragedy would justify what she did to Kyle, how she treated him. But he knew she already knew that. Heidi’s own conscience tormented her more than Stan ever could.

“So that’s everything, then?” he asked.

“That’s everything.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But I’m glad you found the strength to keep fighting.”

A sliver of the effervescent Heidi he’d met at the start of the evening returned as a glimmer in her eye. “Me too,” she said proudly. “It’s a tough old life, but it’s worth living.”

Stan felt in his pocket for a pen, “Should I write down my phone number, for you to give to Pip, then? So he can tell us where he hid the evidence?”

“No.” Her expression grew suddenly grave. “No, I won’t be doing that.”

He furrowed his brow. “Seriously? After all that? After everything Cartman put you through, all that did to you, you’re still gonna protect him?”

“I don’t want you to protect him.”

“Then what do you want? What do you want me to do?”

Heidi looked him dead in the eye. “Kill Cartman.”

Stan stared at her in horror. “No,” he said softly, “No way.”

She shook her head slowly, "You kill me to deny it."

“Look, I’m sorry for everything you suffered through, Heidi, but I can’t—I don’t kill. That’s my rule.” Even talking about it made him feel sick. He felt his mind begin to be dragged back to his time in Germany. The he things he saw. The things he did. Never again. “I don’t kill,” he repeated, firmly.

She watched him for just a moment more before her cold expression crumbled. “I thought you might say that,” she said sadly.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said flatly, then changed his tune, reminding himself she still had something he wanted. “Are you really not going to tell Pip about us?”

“I don’t know,” Heidi said. “I think… Okay, how about this: You persuade Kyle to give me a chance to explain myself to him, to truly apologise for everything I’ve done, and I’ll pass on your message.”

“That won’t be easy.” Stan thought of Kyle’s expression when he’d seen Bobby. How horrified he was.

If it were anyone else that he had to convince, he would be fine. Stan Marsh was stubborn, and stubborn people always got what they wanted. But this was Kyle, the man which could soften him up with a single sideways glance, who could make him do anything, anything at all, all he had to do was ask, and oh, God, Stan was so hopelessly in love with him.

Stan jumped. Where the fuck had that come from? “Did you say something?” he asked Heidi wildly.

“I… no?” She wrinkled her nose at him, “Are you alright?”

Stan was not alright. His heart was thumping so hard and so fast that he thought it might burst out of his chest and onto the table. He could feel his palms getting clammy. He balled them into fists.

I’m in love with Kyle, he thought giddily. Fuck, of course I am. Of course I fucking am. The admission of this made his stomach lurch, and as soon as it did, the realisation dawned on him that this had not come from nowhere. He’d known all along, right from the start, that this would happen. As soon as he’d seen him in his office, that first day they’d met, a tiny piece in the back of his brain told him it was inevitable. He was too handsome, too intelligent, too sweet not to fall in love with. But like the fool he was, he’d forged right ahead anyway. He’d allowed himself to fall. Fall utterly and completely in love.

What a disaster. Why here? Why now? Sitting at the kitchen table of Kyle’s ex-girlfriend. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just don’t think about it, and it’ll go away eventually. But he knew this was futile effort. This was an affliction that he would not be relieved of any time soon.

Stan took in a deep breath, held it, then let it out again, slowly. “Okay,” he said to Heidi, doing his best to keep the tremors out of his voice. “Okay, you have a deal.”

It was the first genuine smile she had given him since they first shook hands. It bloomed across her face magnificently. “Great!” She beamed, “That’s great. I’ll write down my telephone number for you. Call me when you convince him, and we’ll arrange a time and place.” She glanced around, “I don’t think we should meet here again. I think—Maybe we pick some neutral territory.” She rose and rummaged in a drawer until she found pen and paper, then scrawled down a string of numbers. ‘Heidi,’ she wrote next to it, followed by three exclamation marks. She thrust it at him, “Here!”

“Thanks.” He pocketed it and stood, still feeling a little dizzy. “I sure hope Kyle hasn’t driven home without me.” The sound of heavy rain beating down outside made a shiver run along his spine, “I’d hate to walk home in this weather.”

“He won’t have,” she said, “He’s left his jacket.” She gestured to the chair Stan had been sitting at, which had Kyle’s trench coat hanging on the back. “He keeps his car keys in the right pocket—Or at least, he used to.”

Stan slipped his hand inside the right pocket, and sure enough, his fingers closed around cool metal. “I’d better get going then,” he said worriedly, “Kyle must be getting soaked if he’s only standing outside the car. And no jacket, too, at this time of year.” He took the coat and folded it over his arm. He crossed to the door but paused before he left. He felt he should say something else, a profound parting line, but he had nothing. He was too busy thinking about Kyle. As per fucking usual. “Well, goodbye,” he said instead, for it was all he could think to say. “See you soon, I hope.”

“I do hope so.”

Stan had to fight to stop himself from racing down the stairs. Kyle would be fine, he reminded himself. Sure, he felt the cold more than most, but he would just be a little soggy, that was all. No need to panic. No need to rush.

His calm vanished when he made to the exit of the apartment building. They had parked just outside, so stan could see the car quite clearly. Kyle was not there. Stan’s heart dropped. He peered apprehensively up at the sky. It was raining so heavily that it looked as if it were falling. He bolted for the car, unlocking and wrenching open the door as quick as he could, to avoid getting drenched in the relentless downpour. He sat in the driver’s seat, breathless, peering out the windows in panic. Kyle was nowhere in sight. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Stay cool, Stan, stay cool, he told himself. Just think – where could Kyle be? If he wasn’t here, then he must be… home. He must be walking home. This was not in the slightest bit reassuring. Stan had no idea which direction Kyle’s place was.

A nauseous wave of guilt washed over him. He should never have stayed with Heidi. He should have followed Kyle, he knew that, but his curiosity had got the better of him. How long had he and Heidi been talking, after Kyle had left? How far could he have got? Stan would just have to drive around until he found him. He had the advantage of being able to move quicker than Kyle on foot, he supposed. “It’s fine,” he said aloud. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine. After a full twenty minutes of driving in circles, trying to identify the figures that walked past through the pouring rain, Stan was starting to get really worried. This was not the sort of neighbourhood to be wandering alone in at night. What if something had happened to him, and Stan wasn’t there to protect him? His foot pressed down a heavier on the peddle. He shot through the streets with wild desperation, despite the fact that the rain had turned to snow into slush, making the roads dangerously slippery. Stan didn’t care. His mind was fixed only on one thing: Kyle. He had to find Kyle.

After a full half an hour of searching, he found him. Hunched over, arms wrapped about himself, shivering. Trudging determinedly against the bracing wind that spat a slew of heavy raindrops in his face. He was bedraggled, wet curls slicked down across his forehead, and clothes so sodden they clung to his bony frame like rags.

Stan slowed the car and cracked down the window. “Kyle!” he said in relief. He had found him. He was alright. He was safe now. “What on earth are you doing out here?”

Kyle turned on him with such malice in his eyes that Stan shrank back in his seat. “I waited for you,” he spat. “I waited, but you never came for me.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the wind and the rain.

“I’m sorry,” Stan said, “Kyle, I’m so sorry. I should have—I should have come sooner. But I had to know, I had to know the truth.”

“I would have told you!” Kyle cried.

“Would you?” Stan asked incredulously. “Because I don’t think you would!”

For a moment, Kyle’s mask of animosity faltered. Stan saw, so clearly, the anguish in his eyes. The amount of pain he held there was too much to bear. Stan wanted to take him in his arms, hold him tight, never let go. Kyle sensed Stan’s sympathy, and it reignited his resentment. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled. He started up his trek again.

“Get in the car, Kyle.” Stan drove slowly along beside him as he trudged along.

“No,” Kyle said petulantly, “I’m walking home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stan rolled his eyes, “Get in the car.”

Kyle did not. He did not even look at him.

Stan pressed on the centre of the steering wheel in frustration. The car omitted a short sharp honked. The sudden sound made Kyle jump, and he skidded a little on the slush. He regained his balance and glared and Stan, “What?”

“Get in the car.”

“Fuck. Off.”

Stan stopped. He stared at him in disbelief. Kyle had never sworn at him before, and okay, yeah, it hurt a little. He was beginning to understand just what his decision to stay with Heidi had meant to him. Kyle had needed him, he’d needed someone to lean on, to support him, and Stan hadn’t been there. He’d lingered with his dreaded ex-girlfriend instead. He felt terrible. He pulled the car over and rolled the window down further. “Get in the car, Kyle,” he said again, gentler, “Please.”

Kyle just kept on plodding. “Leave me alone.”

Stan was not about to do that again. He took Kyle’s coat from the passenger seat and got out of the car. He caught up to him, but Kyle did not slow when he heard him approaching, instead he picked up speed. Stan had to increase his pace to keep up, which was not an easy feat when the ground was this slippery.

“Kyle,” Stan said. Kyle did not turn around, just kept his gaze firmly fixed in front of him. “Kyle,” he said again, louder. He put a hand on his shoulder.

Kyle whirled around so quickly that his feet slid right out from under him on the slush. He careered forward, grabbing on to Stan as he fell, whose footing was not steady enough to keep either of them upright. They tumbled to the ground together, Stan landing on top of Kyle, just barely propping himself up in time, as to avoid smashing their heads together.

They looked at each other with wide, unblinking eyes. Stan expected Kyle to shove him angrily off, but he didn’t. He just stared. Stan felt his face growing hot under his gaze. His body, too. It dawned on him that since Kyle was pinned beneath him, he would have to be the one to move first. He allowed the moment to last just a little longer before he stood, a little unsteady. He held out a hand, and he was worried Kyle might slap it away, but he took it, and was helped to his feet. If he hadn’t been soaking before, he certainly was now.

“Well, that was quite a tumble,” Stan murmured, “Are you alright?”

Kyle was blushing furiously. “I, uh—Yes. Yes, I’m alright,” he stuttered as Stan brushed snow from him, “Sorry.”

Stan picked up the trench coat that he had dropped when they fell. It was soaking wet too, now, so Stan took off his own jacket and wrapped it around Kyle’s shoulders like a cloak. “I’m sorry,” he said gently, “I’m sorry for—I should have been there for you.”

Kyle stared at him in disbelief.

Too late, Stan realised what he’d done. What he’d said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Stan Marsh never apologised, not to anyone, not ever. And yet, he’d said it now, to Kyle.

God fucking damn that man.

“It’s, um… I forgive you,” Kyle said breathlessly, “I understand. Thank you for apologising.”

And then Kyle did the most unexpected thing. He hugged him.

Stan tensed. His breath caught in his throat as he felt Kyle cautiously wrap his arms around him. He found himself hesitantly sliding his own arms around him, too.

“Is this a thing we do?” Stan whispered, even though he knew it would probably ruin the moment. “Do we hug?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Kyle said awkwardly, “I thought maybe I might try it.”

“Well, it’s… um, it’s nice.”

He felt Kyle relax a little. “It is?”

“Yeah. I think so. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Christ, Kyle’s body felt so cold against him. Stan pulled him in tighter, in a desperate effort to warm him up. He could feel the shivers that wracked Kyle’s body jittering against his own. “You’re freezing.”

“I know,” Kyle mumbled. “I realised the moment I left that I’d forgotten my jacket, but I couldn’t bear to go back to get it.”

Stan pulled back and frowned at him. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he scolded, but immediately softened when he saw the guilt on Kyle’s face. “Leave that role for me, eh?”

“Fine by me,” Kyle smiled sheepishly. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this tenacious stuff anyway.”

“Come on,” Stan put his arm around Kyle’s shoulder, just to prove to himself that he could. They hugged now. This was a thing they did. A thing which he had a completely normal reaction to. There definitely wasn’t a tempest raging within him right now. Not at all. “Let’s go home,” he said breezily. They began walking back to the car. The rain was beating down as heavy as ever, but Stan didn’t feel it. His senses were too overwhelmed already.

“God, it’s been a weekend for us so far, hasn’t it?” Kyle remarked. “An unending parade of jilted ex-lovers.”

“Got any other old girlfriends I should prepare myself for?”

“I don’t know. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lola, my girlfriend from second grade showed up and started berating me for stealing her crayons.”

Stan laughed, “At least you didn’t eat them.”

“You eat crayons?”

“Not any more! I was seven.”

“Seven is way too old to be eating crayons, Stan.” Kyle scrutinised him, “I wonder if ingesting wax affects brain development. That would explain a lot, actually.”

“Oh, shut up!” Stan shoved him playfully, forgetting the slippery sidewalk and Kyle’s poor balance. But this time Stan’s reaction was quicker. His arm shot out and grabbed Kyle’s flailing hand, tugging him into his chest to stop his fall.

Kyle looked up at him, “Bastard.”

“Sorry,” Stan grinned sheepishly at him. There – he’d said it again! ‘Sorry.’ Before, the idea of apologising was actually kind of sickening. The vulnerability. The admission of guilt. To put yourself so utterly and completely at the mercy of who you’ve wronged – terrifying. But here, with Kyle, that didn’t seem so bad.

“Got any exes I should be worrying about?” Kyle asked as they stopped by the car. He had meant it as a joke, but as soon as he saw Stan’s expression, he knew the answer. “Wait—Shit, there is, isn’t there?”

Stan swallowed. “I think you’ll be alright,” he said. “We ended things on good terms.” Stan knew Kyle had a bucket full of questions, and probably quite a few theories, but to his relief, he kept them to himself. Stan opened the passenger door of the car, but Kyle stopped him.

“Actually, can… Can you drive?” He lifted his hands. They were shaking, almost violently. He really was cold. “I don’t think I’m ready to get behind a wheel just yet.”

“Of course.” Stan took up a position in the driver’s seat once again.

Kyle shifted the jacket from being wrapped around his shoulders and slid his arms into the sleeves. It was too big for him, really, but that didn’t stop Stan from inwardly revelling at how cute he looked in it.

“You can just drop me off at mine.” Kyle said, “Take my car, drive yourself home.”

“Really? But—”

“Stan,” Kyle said seriously, “You’d be insane to try to walk home in this weather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Antisemitism; Drug use; Allusion to abuse in a relationship.  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

It took Tweek a moment to realise that the scream was coming from his own mouth. He didn’t know where he was, or what was happening, but he knew he wasn’t safe. He could hear blood rushing in his ears, feel his heart pounding in his chest, but couldn’t see a thing. It was so completely pitch black that he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut.

Someone – or something – jolted upright beside him. “Tweek! What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Tweek put a hand over his mouth to muffle the wails, spilling uncontrollably out of him. His breaths came in quick, frantic bursts. _Not safe. Not safe._ He was about to die, God, he was about to be killed. A light flicked on, so sudden and bright in the thick black darkness that it hurt. He screwed his eyes shut tight, still whimpering.

“Tweek?”

Tweek slowly and cautiously peeked out between a crack in his fingers. A man peered at him; his brows furrowed with concern. It took him a moment to remember who he was. “C-Craig?”

“Are you alright?”

Tweek looked around in a daze. He did not recognise this room. “Where am I?” he asked wildly. “What’s going on?”

“You’re, uh, my—You’re in my bedroom.”

“Why?” he gasped between short sharp gulps of air. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

Craig abstained from answering this question. “Tweek, you need to breath slower. You’re only winding yourself up more.” He made to put a hand on his shoulder, but Tweek flinched away from his touch in such an exaggerated, violent movement that he held back. “You’re okay,” he said, shifting slightly away from him, giving him some space, “You’re safe.”

Tweek gazed at him with eyes as big as moons. “Safe?”

“Yes. You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you.” Craig’s gentle, deep voice was soothing in a way he had not felt before. “Can you breathe a little slower for me?”

Tweek closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose, then let it out gradually through his mouth. “Safe,” he murmured to himself, and then again, until it became a mantra, recited after every exhale. Bit by bit, the haze of panic began to clear. The memories it had obscured came back into focus. He opened his eyes, and he knew where he was now. The fear gave way to shame.

Craig was looking at him with such thoughtful concern that he only felt worse. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Tweek buried his head between his knees and groaned. “Oh my God,” he said, “I am so sorry.”

Craig took this to mean he was okay again, for the most part. “It’s alright,” he said calmly, “You can’t help it.”

“Sorry,” he said again, “Fuck, Craig, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“But—”

“Don’t be.” The sudden severity of this delivery – which came out almost like an order – was enough to shock Tweek out of his spiral of apologies and into a momentary silence.

“Still,” he said, once he’d found his tongue again, “It’s an awful way to wake someone up, at quarter past four on a Sunday morning.” He remained hunched over, hiding his face, though he knew it was a futile effort – he was only in his boxers, and the embarrassment burnt a full body blush.

Craig, similarly bare chested, tilted his head, “How do you know what time it is?”

Tweek sighed and raised his head. “That was the time I had to wake up at every morning, in the—the Philippines. I still do, sometimes.” He frowned, “Though not usually screaming. Not done that for a while.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No. I never really dream. I just—wake up terrified. Think maybe I’m back there. Tt’s different, in my apartment,” he pulled on a piece of his hair, at the back, “I usually figure out what’s going on a lot quicker.”

“Do you want me to take you home?” Craig asked, “I can drive you.”

“No! God, no, I’m not gonna make you drive anywhere at this time.”

“But if it would help,” he said, “I don’t mind.”

“Craig, really, its fine. You don’t have to—to bend over backwards to accommodate my stupid shell shock.”

“But I want to,” Craig said quickly, “Tweek, I want to help you.” His eyes searched him earnestly, and Tweek drew the covers up over himself, feeling suddenly exposed. “There must be something I can do.”

“I, um…” Tweek slowly unwound his grip from his hair. “I usually sleep with the wireless on. I like—the voices, the music, it gives me something to focus on, that’s not, you know…” He tapped his head meaningfully.

Without another word, Craig rose from the bed and slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The absence of his presence left the room feeling suddenly colder. Tweek shivered and wrapped the covers tighter around his knees, which were still pulled up to his chest. He sat back against the wall and watched the closed door tentatively. A small part of him wondered whether Craig had got so fed up with him that he’d decided to sleep on the couch.

After what felt like an hour, but was likely only a minute, he returned. He was carrying a small radio and a glass of water. The water, he handed to Tweek, and the radio he set on the bed in front of him as he got back in. Tweek noticed how he was still keeping his distance. He wished he wouldn’t.

“Do you have a favourite station?” he asked.

Tweek downed the water eagerly, surprised by how thirsty he was, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Um,” he reached out for the wireless, “May I?” Craig nodded, and exchanged it for the empty glass. He fiddled with the dials until it was tuned to a station he recognised. Soft classical music began floating out, dubbed by fuzzy voices. He turned it down low. “Is that going to be annoying?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Craig said, but Tweek didn’t trust that he wasn’t just saying that. Craig set the radio down on his nightstand, “Is there anything else I could get you?”

“No,” Tweek said, “I’m fine,” and again, as if he hadn’t been convincing enough, “Really, I am.”

Craig was looking at him with such a tender expression that Tweek wanted to cry. How was it that a man like Craig could care for someone like him? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. “Well, then,” Craig said, “Is it alright if turn out the light?”

“Yes,” Tweek said, almost in relief, for he was not sure he could stand another moment like that without breaking down. He’d made it this far without crying, he was not about to ruin his record now.

Craig leant over to his nightstand and switched out the lamp. The room was plunged pitch black once more, music lilting through it like a lullaby.

“Tweek?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind—unwinding a bit of the duvet?”

Tweek realised that in the aftermath of the episode he had cocooned himself completely in it. “Right! Yes, sorry.” He heard an amused chuckle from Craig as he redistributed the blanket.

“Stop apologising all the time.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Tweek said, then cringed, “I mean, um. I’m… not sorry?”

Craig snorted, “Much better.”

Tweek lay back down, and as he did so, he felt his foot brush his bedfellow’s leg. Craig pulled quickly away. Tweek felt a pang of remorse. Though the bed was not big, the space between them felt like a great, gaping cavern. He wanted so badly to leap across it, and land safely in his arms on the other side.

“Craig?” he whispered into the darkness. He did not know why he was bothering to whisper – it wasn’t as if there was anyone else that he had to worry about waking up. His shrieks of terror had seen to that already.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to—Uh, you can touch me, you know.” He heard Craig’s breath catch in his throat.

“Like—In what way?”

“Oh! I’m not asking for you to fuck me at four in the morning, Craig,” he giggled, “If that’s what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t.” Tweek could not tell if there was a slight edge of disappointment in his tone or if he just wanted there to be one there.

“I just meant that… you can hold me. If you want.” Despite the fact that just hours ago they had gone quite a bit further than that, he felt nervous, offering this proposition into the shapeless void. There was a beat of silence. Then, he heard the rustle of the covers as Craig shifted, closing the gulf between them. He slid his arm around his waist and Tweek let himself be pulled in, so that his back was against Craig’s chest. Skin against skin. Heat against heat.

“Is that what you meant?” Craig whispered in his ear.

“Yeah,” Tweek murmured. He nestled in closer. He wanted to feel every inch of his body pressed against him. “You make me feel so much safer.”

“I do?” he sounded genuinely surprised.

“Well, yeah,” Tweek said. “Maybe that’s weird. Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird!” Craig said hastily, “I’m—I’m glad.” He paused, then whispered hesitantly, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tweek said. “It’s just… I feel protected, I guess. I know I’m not alone.”

“Protected,” Craig repeated proudly. He ran his hand up Tweek’s chest, almost possessively. “I like the sound of that. Me, protecting you.”

Tweek was a little turned on by that too, and he could feel Craig’s half-arousal where Tweek’s ass was pressed against his groin, but he was too tired to do anything about it. Normally, he found it difficult to fall back to sleep after such a rude awakening, but the warmth of Craig’s body had lulled him into a sense of drowsiness. He felt his eyelids beginning to droop. He reached up sluggishly and put his hands over Craig’s. “Don’t let go,” he muttered blearily into the pillow. “Just… let’s stay like this forever.” If he received any reply, he would not have known. Tweek was already out for the count.

He was stirred some time later, when he became vaguely aware of movement and felt a warmth slip away from behind him. He groaned and curled in on himself, bringing his thighs up to his chest in a half-hearted attempt to conserve what heat remained. Eyes still shut, he felt the covers pulled higher over him, and cooed contentedly, before drifting back off into a gentle doze.

His eyelids fluttered open just a little while later, a gradual ascent into consciousness. Light streamed in from the cracks in the curtain, bathing the room in a heavenly glow. Tweek had shifted in his sleep so that his back was pressed firmly against the wall, duvet bunched around himself in another cocoon. His vision came into focus on the spot where Craig had slept. It was empty, though the indent on his pillow where his head had lain was still preserved. Tweek reached out to touch it. It was cold. He must have got up some time ago.

The clock on his nightstand said 0716. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling in a daze. It was white, a popcorn texture. Had yesterday evening really happened? It felt too good to be true. Sure, he was in Craig’s house, in Craig’s bedroom, but… perhaps he had imagined it. Tweek knew this wasn’t the case – there was hardly a platonic explanation for waking up half naked in another man’s bed – but his paranoia still muttered and rambled in the back of his mind. Idiot, it told him, but his heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t awake enough to hate himself just yet.

He sighed and shifted to face the wall. He traced loops across it with his fingertip and closed his eyes, basking in the memories of last night that drifted lazily back to him. How sweet they were. But what if Craig did not feel the same way about it? He had mysteriously vanished, after all. Perhaps it was too much for him to handle.

In Tweek’s youth, when he’d slept with a classmate, the morning after had always been the worst part. The uncomfortable lack of eye contact. The sense of shame that hung thick and heavy in the air, suffocating. The unspoken question of ‘What next?’ Never uttered because the answer was implicit: nothing good. With a sinking feeling, Tweek supposed it might be like this with Craig, too. Every wall he’d worked so hard to break through, rebuilt and refortified. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter in attempt to block out the light which still glowed through his closed eyelids, and with it, the intrusive thoughts. Stop it, he told himself, just enjoy the present, this little piece of serenity, while it lasts. But Tweek had never been good at living in the moment. He was either fretting over the future or dragged back into the past. If only, he thought, he could—

“Morning.”

Tweek let out an involuntary shriek. He scrambled upright. Craig was leaning casually against the doorway, a mug in each hand. He was dressed in his uniform: blue shirt, black pants, and grey tie. His dark hair was damp, and Tweek realised he must have dozed off long enough for him to shower. He felt vaguely disappointed to have missed it. “Oh, uh—good morning,” Tweek rubbed his eyes.

“Sleep well?” Craig asked. “Well, apart from—you know…”

“Yeah,” Tweek said, “Yeah, actually, I did.” He graciously accepted the cup of coffee he was offered. Craig sat down at the end of the bed.

“Tweek,” he began, “About last night—”

“Sorry!”

“Stop that,” Craig said, almost automatically. “Why would you apologise for that?”

Tweek fixed his gaze on the coils of steam that rose from the surface of his drink. “I only—I thought maybe—Um.” He braved a glance at Craig. He was looking at him expectantly. Tweek suddenly felt very aware of just how few clothes he was wearing. He looked away again and fidgeted with the hem of the duvet, pulling it further up over himself. “It’s just that when I’ve done this before, this is usually the awkward part.”

“Does it have to be?”

Tweek couldn’t help himself, he looked up at him again, just to check if he were sincere. He was, evident by the slight furrow of his brow, but there was an element of defiance to it, too, hinted at by the upwards tilt of his jaw.

“Uh, no,” Tweek said, taken aback. “I—I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Well, we’ll just skip that part,” Craig said matter-of-factly.

“Alright,” Tweek said, and he felt kind of relieved. He’d never thought of doing that before. He didn’t know you could.

Craig took a sip of his coffee, “So, you’ve done this before, then?”

“Oh, yes. I was quite the busy body in high school.” Tweek felt almost nostalgic about it, despite the fact that it had not exactly felt like a great experience at the time.

Craig narrowed his eyes. “High school,” he said carefully, “Like, high school with Clyde?”

“What, were we going out?” Tweek actually laughed at that. “Yeah, no. He’s not really my type.”

“So what is your type, then?”

Tweek did not want to answer that. He preoccupied himself with his coffee, for he could not be expected to talk if his mouth were full. He was so eager to avoid the question that he finished it in one long gulp. It was too hot, burning the back of his throat, but he did it anyway. It was useless, though, because Craig simply waited patiently for him to finish, but when he did, he was no more enthusiastic about answering than he had be before he’d had downed an entire mug in one go.

“What is your type?” Craig asked again, and Tweek no longer had any excuse not to reply.

“I, um… You, I suppose.”

The corner of Craig’s mouth quirked, “That so?”

“Uh huh. Pretty much.”

“Well,” he smirked, “You’re a lucky guy, then.”

Tweek smiled timidly, “Certainly am.”

“Ain’t you gonna ask what my type is, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Tweek gained a little confidence, “Because I already know.”

“Oh really? What is it, then?”

Tweek rattled off the list on his fingers, a mischievous glint in his eye: “Small, blond and twitchy.”

Craig considered that. “I—I guess you’re not wrong.”

“So, have you never then? With another man, have you never…”

“No,” Craig said. He did not seem embarrassed, or if he was, he didn’t show it.

“Wow,” Tweek marvelled, “So I was your first? I guess that’s kind of special. Or something.” It certainly felt special to him.

“Not quite first. I, uh, I’ve slept with women. A few times.”

Tweek imagined that with Craig’s looks and enchanting stoicism he could probably have just about any woman he wanted. The fact that he’d picked him made him squirm with smug satisfaction. “How was that? Women, I mean—I’ve never done it myself.”

Craig shrugged. “It was okay. But just that, really. Just ‘okay.’”

“And how was last night?” Tweek chewed his cheek, braving the question. He tensed.

Craig smirked, “A lot better than just fine. A whole lot better.”

“Good,” the tension in Tweek’s shoulders released, “Yeah, I thought so, too.”

Craig looked at him for a second, lost in thought. He set his mug on the ground, at the foot of the bed.

“What?” Tweek asked, and then again, when Craig smiled at him, “What?” He put a hand up to his face, “Do I have coffee around my mouth, or—”

Craig swooped forward and kissed him. Tweek was so taken aback by the sudden contact that he careered backwards and bashed his head against the wall. He winced, and Craig pulled back.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “I should have, um—”

“Don’t apologise.” He kissed him again, to make sure he wouldn’t. After a while, he crawled closer to Craig and repositioned himself until he was sitting on his lap, wrapping his legs around his waist. Craig brought his hands up and threaded his fingers through Tweek’s hair, who moaned slightly when he tugged on it gently. He began to grind his hips against him and felt with satisfaction the response it stirred in Craig’s pants.

“Tweek,” he sighed, pulling back reluctantly, and glanced at the alarm clock. “I can’t, I have work.”

“On a Sunday?” He knew the answer, he could see the uniform he was wearing.

“Mm-hm. No rest for the wicked.”

“Okay,” Tweek dismounted obediently. He checked the clock himself, then sucked in a breath, “Actually, shit. I have an audition today, too.”

Craig looked at him in sudden concern. He had by now recognised Tweek’s anxiety around timing. “You alright?”

Tweek could not deny he was disconcerted. Nausea surged in his stomach. He let it wash over him without fighting it, breathing deeply. It was bearable, just a little unsettling. “Fine,” he said, almost surprised, “Yeah, I’m okay, actually.” He swallowed, “Um, is there time for me to shower before your shift?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll grab you some towels.”

Showering in Craig’s bathroom felt almost like walking on holy ground. Tweek squeezed a generous amount of shampoo into his palm and lathered it luxuriously into his hair, like it was liquid gold. He wanted so badly to linger, to soak in the feeling of the hot water on his back and yeah, okay, maybe touch himself a little, but he was also hyperaware of Craig schedule and didn’t want to make him late, so fought off the urge to do so. When he emerged from the shower his soft skin was flushed a slight pink from the heat. He put his clothes from last night back on – he had no others, and certainly none of Craig’s would have fit him. They smelled of the fair, of cinnamon churros and apple cider. The scent sent a delicious shiver down his spine at the memories it stirred. He made his way into the kitchen, and found Craig waiting for him.

“I made you some breakfast,” he said.

“Oh, thanks,” Tweek said guiltily, “But I’m—I don’t really eat breakfast. I’m not really hungry.”

Craig’s expression was unwavering. “Eat,” he said adamantly. “You should. It’s important.”

“I—Um, okay.” He accepted the toast with honey and ate it in delicate bites, Craig watching him all the while.

“Good,” he said quietly, once he was finished. “Thank you.”

The blush that had been gathering on Tweek’s cheeks spread down to his neck. He turned away to begin lacing up his boots, to free himself from his piercing eye contact that seemed to bore into his soul. He felt slightly breathless.

“Where is your audition?” he heard Craig ask from behind him.

“At the theatre on Trent Street,” Tweek stood, and Craig held his jacket for him to slip his arms into, which he did. “You know it?”

“No, but I know the street,” Craig said as he shrugged on his uniform jacket, a deep blue, and picked up his hat. “It’s just a few blocks from the office. I’ll drive you.”

“Oh, ah, thank you.”

Thankfully, the weather had cleared up considerably since last night, but puddles of slushy snow still remained. Tweek took care not to step in any. The last thing he wanted was to slip and fall. Craig started the car, and Tweek habitually took note of the route, each road they went down and each turning they made, for no reason other than to avoid having to make eye contact. Despite the fact that Craig had make the executive decision to skip the ‘awkward part,’ a sense of uneasiness crept back over him. He did not enjoy ambiguity in a relationship, nor uncertainty of any kind, it was disconcerting and frustrating.

“Tweek,” Craig said, and Tweek flinched away from the window. “Earlier—I don’t want you to think that I didn’t want to… you know. Because I did. I do.” He looked at him, just briefly, but the electricity that crackled in his blue eyes was still staggering, even at a glance.

“Oh,” Tweek swallowed, excitement flaring in his belly, “I, um… Right. Me too.” He turned this over in his mind. “What time does your shift finish?”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “Five thirty, if the chief’s feeling generous.” He looked at him from the corner of his eye, “Why?”

Tweek licked his bottom lip, then bit it. “Well, I was thinking. Maybe—Maybe we can pick up where we left off.”

“Oh yeah?” Craig grinned.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’d like that.” He’d found a space to pull the car into, and turned to him, resting an arm on the steering wheel. “I’ll pick you up at yours around six.”

“Okay,” Tweek breathed. He glanced outside, then back to Craig. “I should get going.” He hesitated, then leant forward and gave him a chaste kiss, quick enough that passers-by would not notice. It was apparently unexpected, for Craig was momentarily dumbfounded, a rarity. Tweek smiled, “See you later,” and departed. He was satisfied with knowing that Craig would be counting down the seconds until ‘later’ arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Panic attack.  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope all you lovely folk had a good Christmas! And to those who don’t celebrate it, I hope you had a good day anyway.
> 
> You may have noticed that the number of total chapters promised for this fic has changed from 20 to 17. Do not fear! I’ve just done some reshuffling of my plans and combined a few chapters where it seemed appropriate. All this means is you’ll get a few lengthier chapters, and more content sooner.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this one...
> 
> \-- Edit, 29th of December --  
> Wow wow wow, we've got an illustration for this chapter!! It's by HamiltrashLyzerz1 on Deviant Art and it's incredible, thank you so much ahhhhh ヽ(^◇^*)/ It boggles my mind that someone would read the silly little words I write and go "Hmm, this seems worthy of my talent," but apparently that happened?? Wild.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and show 'em some love once you're done :))

Stan awoke with a violent jerk from a dreamless sleep. He had been so deeply unconscious that it had felt as if he were drowning, and to wake was to break the surface and come up for air. His eyelids snapped open. For a brief, disorientating moment, his vision blurred, and ears rang. He wondered vaguely if he really was underwater.

Stan rubbed his eyes. His sight came into focus, and he found the ringing was not in his ears but coming from his telephone He was not underwater, just sweating beneath his sheets. He groaned and sat up, head pounding. God, what time was it? It could have just as easily been seven a.m. as it could have been past noon - Stan’s body clock was hardly reliable, thrown out of sync by spending too many late nights investigating bottle after bottle. He’d done the same last night, unable to bare the whirlwind of thoughts about Kyle that tore through him like a hurricane.

Stan rolled out of bed and fumbled for the phone, if only to put an end to the ear-splitting trilling. “Hello?” he croaked into the receiver. His throat was as dry, painfully so, and his mind as foggy as the sleepy Sunday city outside his window.

“Hi, Stan. Sorry, did I wake you?” Kyle. It was Kyle.

A wave of nausea surged in Stan’s stomach, but he washed it back down with a stale, half-empty glass of water sitting on his nightstand. “I, um, yeah. Don’t worry about it. But how—How did you know?” Stan instinctively brought a hand up to smooth his bed hair down, then remembered this was only a phone call, and felt stupid.

“Your voice is gravellier in the mornings,” Kyle chuckled, “You sound like a different person.” 

Stan cleared his throat, self-conscious. “Oh, um… Sorry?” He was not used to this apologising thing, wasn’t sure if this were the right time to do so, but thought he’d try it out.

“No, no,” Kyle said quickly, “It’s, uh—I don’t mind. It’s nice.”

Stan was glad to have a phone between them: he did not like to be seen blushing, which was why he did not do it often. Head beginning to clear, it dawned on him that Kyle’s voice sounded different too, actually. Nasally, muffled, kind of hoarse. “Are you alright? You sound a little stuffed up.”

“Yeah,” Kyle sniffled, “I guess moping about in the rain doesn’t do wonders for your health.”

“Who would have guessed?” Stan rolled his eyes, but still couldn’t push down the feeling of guilt that was beginning to build in the back of his mind. He could have found Kyle sooner. He could have made him get in the car straight away, instead of letting him march on defiantly. He could have caught him before he fell. He could have—

Kyle interrupted his spiral, “Anyway, I’ve thought a lot about last night.”

Stan’s heart leapt to his throat. He had to swallow hard to fit it back down his oesophagus. “Me too,” he said, then realised how breathlessly that came out, and controlled himself. “Uh, what about, exactly?” He tried to sound casual. He failed. Then he decided that perhaps it would be best if they did not have this conversation right now, because he was not sure how well he could control himself. “Actually, why don’t we talk face to face?” 

“Oh, but I don’t want to give you what I have,” Kyle said worriedly. “Perhaps it’s best if we—”

“Don’t worry about that. Marshes don’t get sick, we’re too stubborn.”

“You know, that I can believe,” Kyle snorted. “Okay, well, there’s a—” He stopped abruptly, and the line went silent for a moment. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then the muffled sound of someone sneezing several times. Kyle returned to the phone. “Sorry,” he sniffed, “Anyway, there’s a diner down on Main Street, we could get breakfast there. Or brunch, whatever.”

Stan’s brow furrowed, “You really don’t sound too hot. Are you sure you’re up for that?”

“I’m fine! I feel fine.”

“You’re a real bad liar, Kyle,” Stan tutted, “You ought to work on that. No, I’ll come to you, to yours.”

“It’s just a cold, I don’t mind—”

“It’ll be better for you and makes no difference to me, because I’ve still got your car so I can drive over, no problem.” This was not entirely true – it would make a lot of difference to Stan if they met in Kyle’s apartment. It seemed more personal, somehow. “Plus, I uh, I want to make it up to you, for yesterday.”

“Stan,” Kyle said. Stan loved it when he said his name, whether it was spoken tenderly or laced with irritation. It seemed there were a million ways he could say his name, each different from the last. Right now, it was in gentle resignation. “Stan, you don’t have anything to make up for. I just—I’m not mad at you, okay? You don’t have to do this because you think you need to win me back over.”

“I’m not,” Stan said, and it took all his energy to keep his voice from softening. “I’m doing this because—” Why exactly was he doing this? “Uh, well, not because of that.”

“Good. Because I’m already on your side.”

Stan could picture him so vividly: sat on kitchen tiles with his knees bent to his chest, twisting the coil of the phone wire around his index finger, flustered flush spreading across his freckled cheeks and down his neck.

“I’ll always be on your side,” Kyle murmured. There was a silence, in which he took the opportunity to start sneezing again. And again. And again. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’ll bring soup,” Stan said. He glanced at the clock, “Actually, I’ll bring the ingredients, make it at yours.”

Kyle sniffled, “Oh, well, you don’t have to do that—” 

“I wasn’t asking,” Stan said forcefully, because already he could tell that Kyle would not let himself be cared for without a fight. He glanced at the clock, “I’ll see you at 11:00.” He put down the receiver before Kyle had a chance to protest further. 

Stan showered and shaved in record time, considering his sloth-like pace on most mornings, especially when hungover. He pulled on a white shirt, his cleanest, and tucked it into a pair of dark corduroy trousers, in which he found a half-packet of cigarettes in the back pocket (score!) He danced round the kitchen, scouping vegetables and spices into a bag, because he didn’t want to rely on what Kyle might or might not have at his. He dug out a packet of noodles, and went to locate some chicken, but then it occurred to him that he didn’t know if his chicken was kosher or not. Did Kyle even keep kosher at all? He didn’t have time to phone and ask, so decided it was best to leave it at home. He shrugged on his leather jacket, checked to make sure Kyle’s car keys were still in his pocket, and beat it.

The drive to Kyle’s was a pleasant one. Lazy Sunday mornings were always the best time to drive in South Park, when most of the residents had yet to muster the energy to drag themselves out of bed yet. the He made it to the door of the apartment building before realising he’d forgotten his bag, which meant he had to turn around and go back, so that by the time he knocked on the door to Kyle’s flat, he was a little out of breath. He steadied himself and smoothed his hair, which was still slightly damp from the shower.

The door swung open, and there was Kyle. He looked pretty rough. His nose was rimmed pink, and Stan hadn’t thought it would be possible for a redhead’s complexion to get any paler, but here he was, proving him wrong. Purplish bags had settled beneath his watery eyes. He was wearing a thick woollen jumper that swamped his frail frame. It took all of Stan’s energy to suppress his instinct to bundle Kyle back up in a blanket and send him straight back to bed.

“You came,” Kyle smiled, and somehow, even in his state, the cute little crinkle of his eyes still made Stan’s stomach lurch.

“I came,” he echoed breathlessly, then cleared his throat and adjusted his tone to one of indifference, “I mean, yeah, of course I came.”

“And you brought… vegetables.”

“Disassembled soup.”

Kyle looked between Stan and the bag incredulously, undecided whether he was joking.

“Are you surprised?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I thought maybe you were kidding about the soup part.”

Stan frowned, “Why would I have been kidding? It’s good for you.”

Kyle blushed, blotchy on his white-as-paper cheeks. “Well, thanks,” he said, bashfully lacing his fingers together, which poked out of the too-long sleeves. He realised he was blocking the entrance, and stepped aside, “Come on in, make yourself at home.”

Kyle’s apartment was about as neat as Stan expected it to be, which is to say, it was spic and span. It wasn’t a big place: a simple kitchen and living room combo, divided by a breakfast bar counter. There was a loveseat and an armchair arranged around a small television set, which was on, but muted, so that the black and white men on the fuzzy screen appeared to be in an old silent flick. A bookshelf was embedded into the back wall behind the set, and a few free-range books neatly stacked on the coffee table in between the two seats. Stan caught sight of the title on the cover of the top one: “A Room with a View”. He wasn’t much of a reader, but he’d heard of it, and he was surprised to see it had a home in Kyle’s place. He hadn’t pegged him as a romantic. The revelation that he was one made him all the more endearing, which was in turn all the more disconcerting for Stan. He did not enjoy being in love. It was awkward, never turned out well, and always got in the way of more important things. Stan shoved the thought to the back of his mind and shifted his gaze.

On the left side of the room, four chairs were tucked evenly into the half-island counter. The dark granite tops shone like black diamonds, reflecting the late morning light which streamed in from the kitchen window. On the far-left wall was a dark wood door, which he presumed lead to a bedroom.

Stan whistled. “Nice place,” he said as he set his bag down on a countertop. “Wish I kept mine as pretty as yours.”

“You should see it when I’m in the middle of working a court case,” Kyle said, “It’s a lot less tidy then.”

“Oh, I bet even your disorderly is orderly,” Stan rolled his eyes. Kyle looked like he was about to protest this assumption, but he was interrupted by a short sneezing fit which wracked his body with shivers. Stan watched, his forehead etched with concern as Kyle’s shoulders shook. “Jesus, that weather last night really hit you hard,” he murmured.

Kyle blew his nose. “Oh, I’ll be fine,” he sniffed, voice blunted by his stuffed-up nose. “Me and Old Man Winter don’t get on too well, but you know that already.” He sighed, “I always get sick this time of year. It’s the worst.”

Stan took a step towards him and pressed the back of his hand to Kyle’s forehead. He felt Kyle flinch at his touch, but he didn’t pull away, just stared nervously at Stan’s jaw, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to look him in the eye. “You’re burning up,” Stan stepped back, “You shouldn’t be wearing such a thick jumper.”

“I don’t feel warm,” Kyle complained, but he obediently pulled the jumper up over his head.

As he did so, the shirt underneath rode up a little, and Stan caught sight of a sliver of soft, bare midriff. He quickly looked away, but it was too late: the image was enough to ignite the kind of thoughts he was working to suppress. Fuck.

“I’m freezing, actually,” Kyle shivered, oblivious to his affect, “Or at least, that’s how I feel.”

“But you always do.” Stan began unpacking his bag, an excuse to not look at him whilst he recovered from his momentary relapse. A relapse which he would not be having again, he promised himself. He had decided the best course of action would be to simply ignore his attraction until it went away. Which it would. Eventually.

“What sort of soup are you gonna make?” Kyle sidled up behind him curiously.

“I was gonna do chicken noodle,” Stan turned, composure regained, “But I—um, I wasn’t sure if chicken was kosher.” He felt kind of embarrassed for even asking, as if the answer were obvious to everyone in the world but him.

Kyle tilted his head, “You thought of that?”

“Of course,” Stan rubbed the back of his neck, “Of course I did, it’s important, right? But I don’t really know a lot about that—that sort of thing. I don’t know, is that a stupid question?”

“It’s not,” Kyle’s little smile was enough for Stan to relax. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t even think to ask, actually.” 

Stan wrinkled his nose, “That’s kind of inconsiderate.”

“Sure,” Kyle shrugged, “But, you know. People are weird around Jewish…ness. I guess they’d just rather pretend I wasn’t Jewish then actually ask about it.”

Stan felt bad, but Kyle didn’t seem too miffed.

Kyle moved to his freezer and bent down to have a poke around. “Anyway, yeah, some chicken can be kosher,” he said as he rummaged, “I think I’ve got some in here, Mom brought some over just the other—ah ha! Yes, here it is.” He pulled out a bag. “It’s frozen cubes. Hope that’s classy enough for you.”

“That’s plenty classy,” Stan took the bag. He would have gone looking for a pot to stew it all in, but everything was put away just-so, and he didn’t want to mess anything up in his blunder. Kyle got out the pot, along with a chopping board and knife, without needing to be prompted anyway.

“So, what’s the first step?” He rolled up his sleeves.

“No,” Stan shook his head, “I’m making this for you. You should rest.”

“God, Stan, I’m not dying,” Kyle rolled his eyes, “I can handle it.”

“No,” Stan was immovable, “Knowing you, you’ll probably end up sneezing at the wrong time and cut your finger off. Take a seat.”

Kyle did so, sulkily, at the breakfast bar. He fiddled absentmindedly with the wireless that sat on the counter, against the wall, static picking up and dying down as he tuned it between channels. His eyes followed Stan as he boiled the water and began chopping vegetables. “So, what made you pick this recipe?” he asked, resting his head in his hands.

“I mean, it’s a classic, isn’t it?” Stan shrugged, “My mom used to make it for me whenever I got sick.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, “I thought Marshes didn’t get sick.”

“That depends on whether there happened to be a test that day,” Stan grinned. “In those cases, well. It was mighty convenient if I did come down with something.”

Kyle snorted, “My mother would never have let me get away with that. My legs could have dropped right off, and she’d have just sent me to school with an aspirin.” He shook his head and changed the topic. “So do you cook often?”

“Sure, when I find the time. I wanted to be a chef when I was younger, actually.” The concept seemed like such a distant memory to him. “I had this whole plan to go to culinary school, and everything.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

“Sorry,” Kyle shrugged, “I just can’t picture you as anything other than a detective. Just—You fit the bill so well.”

“Oh really?” Stan crossed his arms, “And what bill is that?”

“I don’t think you want to hear the answer to that.”

“Shoot.”

Kyle made like he was writing the list in the air. “Cynical. Stubborn. Analytical. Grizzled. Alcoholic—”

“Oi!”

“Well am I wrong?”

“Cynical and stubborn? Established. Analytical? True. Grizzled? Debatable. But an alcoholic? Unfair! I just—I’m not addicted. I could quit drinking. If I wanted to.”

Kyle nibbled his lip. “Stan, how much do you remember from that night at Token’s bar?”

Stan stared at him blankly. The only memory he had from that night was the wicked headache he’d had in the morning. “Fine, point taken,” he huffed.

“That wasn’t rhetorical,” Kyle mumbled, but moved on before Stan could chase up on that. “So what put you off being a chef? I mean, you made a bit of a sudden career change.”

Stan didn’t really feel comfortable admitting that he couldn’t afford culinary school when he graduated and ended up joining the army instead. He opted for an alternative answer. “I’m nosey. I’ve always been sticking my schnoz in other people’s business. Junior year of high school, I figured out I could get paid for it. Just little gigs, you know. Girls would hire me to figure out if their sweethearts were cheating on them, that sort of thing.”

“And were they?”

Stan turned to look at Kyle. “Every. Single. Time.”

Kyle whistled, “Huh. I guess a woman’s intuition is reliable after all.”

“Either that, or teenage boys are jerks.”

Kyle adopted a thoughtful expression, and Stan wondered nervously if this comment had made him think of the situation between him and Wendy. He really would rather he didn’t think too hard about that. Kyle was a smart man, and there was nothing stopping him from connecting the dots about what had really happened.

“You take any medicine for your cold?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. He was aware that he still might be bordering on over baring, but knew it was a better alternative to allowing a silence.

“No. I got a bottle of cough syrup,” Kyle gestured to the cupboard above the sink, “But that stuff makes me too drowsy, and a little loopy. I didn’t want you to come over, only for me to conk out at the table.”

Stan frowned, “Don’t hold back on my account.” He found the bottle Kyle had referenced and peered at the label for the dosage, before finding an appropriate spoon. He tried to hand it to Kyle, but he wouldn’t take it.

“I’m fine, Stan, really.”

“But you’re not, though.”

“I… I don’t… I’m not, ah…” As if to illustrate Stan’s point, Kyle set off on another round of sneezing. He groaned when he’d recovered, “Ugh. Damn it.”

Stan tutted and poured out the medicine onto the spoon. He held it out to him once he’d recovered. “Take it,” he ordered.

Kyle looked between Stan and the spoon. “But it tastes awful.”

Stan raised his eyebrows expectantly, “Go on.”

Kyle sighed resolutely. Instead of taking the spoon, as Stan had expected him to, he leant forward and closed his mouth around it whilst it was still in his hand. Stan felt a strange and sudden pang of affection for him, which he smothered quickly. No more of that nonsense, he scolded himself.

Kyle grimaced as he swallowed it down, “Oh, that is truly vile.”

“You’ll thank me for that later,” Stan said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Debatable,” Kyle grumbled, but relented when he saw the eyeroll Stan made no attempt to hide. “Fine, it might in the long term, but don’t blame me if I fall asleep face down in my soup.”

“Now that, I’d like to see.” He grinned at the scowl Kyle shot him, “What? I’m sure it would be very becoming.”

Kyle huffed, almost a squawk. “You’re so mean to me!”

“You’re right,” Stan sighed, “Coming over, making you soup, feeding you medicine – how will you survive such torture? Such insufferable cruelty?”

“You’re sadistic alright.”

They spent the rest of the cooking process, about half an hour, with similarly harmless banter. “Here,” Stan said, when the soup was almost finished, “Come, taste this, tell me what you think.”

Kyle went to his side, by the stove top. Stan could tell the cough syrup was already starting to have an effect, by the way he dragged his feet as if there were weights attached.

Stan spooned out a little of the soup and blew on it to cool it down. “Careful, it’s hot.” Though he knew he should not indulge further in the spoon-feeding, he did it anyway, holding out to Kyle for him to taste. Kyle did so obligingly. Stan felt again the little surge of satisfaction, and then the accompanying stab of guilt.

“That’s good,” Kyle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning, “Really good.”

“Are you still surprised?”

“No,” he said, “I expected nothing less from my own personal chef.”

Stan scoffed. “I’ll have to double the bill on account of your back talk.”

“Oh, you’re charging me now, are you? Me, a poor little invalid!” Kyle shook his head, “Have you no heart? No sympathy for the damned? Don’t I count as a charity case?”

Stan gave him a withering look, “You know, I rather think you do.”

Kyle smacked him on the arm, “Beast.”

There was no room in Kyle’s little apartment for a proper table, so they ate at the breakfast bar. Though they still talked, Kyle’s voice was quieter, weaker. Every now and then, his eyelids would droop closed, and his head would begin to sink, until Stan would nudge him gently under the counter with his foot and he would start upright again.

“You can go to sleep if you want. If you need to,” Stan said after the third time it happened. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” Kyle said determinedly, “I shan’t waste the soup.”

Stan wondered whether now was the right time to broach the topic of Heidi. He didn’t want to. He wanted to enjoy the peaceful afternoon with Kyle, without bring up bad blood and letting it stain the mood. But the longer it went on, the more he found the desire to kiss him was growing. Just gently, on forehead, or perhaps the bridge of his nose. This was an alarming development. Perhaps it would be best if he did self-sabotage.

“Kyle,” he began, “I thought maybe I ought to talk to you. About last night.”

“Yes,” he said, expression suddenly serious, “I think we ought to.”

Stan swilled the remaining dregs of soup around in his bowl and considered the best way to go about this. He decided honesty would be the best policy, though it was not one he adopted frequently. “Heidi—We talked. Her and I, after you left. She explained some things, but, um. I think it was you she wanted to talk to, really.”

“She’d done quite a lot of talking already, I thought,” Kyle said, making no attempt to mask his scorn. “But go on.”

“Well, afterwards, I asked if she would tell Pip about us. And she said… she said no.”

Kyle put his hands over his eyes and leant wearily on the counter. “Why am I not surprised?” he sighed.

“No, just listen. Instead, she—Kyle, she asked me to kill him. To kill Cartman.”

Kyle jerked back upright and stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Uh huh.”

Kyle rubbed his temples, “Was he—God, was he really that bad to her?”

“She didn’t give a lot of details, but… Yes. I think so.”

Kyle was silent for a while. He stared numbly into his now emptied bowl, looking a little green. “And what did you say?” he asked eventually. “When she asked you to—to kill him?”

“I refused, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kyle repeated, but there was something about the delivery that made it seem like he hadn’t been so sure. “So, what, is that it then? Another dead end?”

“Not quite. She agreed that she’d put us in touch with Pip on one condition.”

“And what was that?” Kyle poked his shoulder when he received no reply. “What was it?”

For the first time, the gravity of what Stan was about to ask him to do hit him. He had barely brought himself to face Wendy, and she had shown him nothing but unending kindness and patience in their years together. But this? This was different. Even Stan could see that now. For Kyle to willingly put himself back in the clutches of a woman who’d treated him like shit for as long as she had, who’d sworn and spat and uttered unspeakable things – he couldn’t expect something like that of him.

“You don’t have to,” Stan said abruptly. “I want you to know you don’t have to do it.”

“Do what?” Kyle searched his face desperately. He put a hand on his arm, “Stan, what did she ask?”

“I—She wanted a chance to apologise to you. Face to face, not just in some half-assed letter. And to explain, too.”

“Oh.” Kyle looked almost relieved. “I thought it might be—worse.” He noticed his hand was still on Stan’s arm, and pulled it away quickly.

“Well, it’s not good though, is it?”

“No,” he laughed hollowly, but it morphed into a lengthy, chesty cough. Once it had subsided, he wheezed, “It’s not exactly an appetising prospect.” He stood shakily, stacked the empty bowls, and said melancholically, “I’ll do it, of course.”

Stan took the dishes from his hand and washed them himself, without asking. “No,” he said, “No, Kyle, it’s not ‘of course.’ Nothing about this situation is ‘of course.’ I—” He stopped and took a moment to choose his words. “I’m not going to pretend I understand what happened between you two. Not even by a long shot. But I need you to know that—that it’s okay to say no.”

“But it’s not.” He rubbed his eyes and swayed slightly on his feet. “Um… Sorry, can we sit down?” He leant on the counter to steady himself, “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded.”

“Right, God, yes,” Stan went to him and without thinking slid his arm around his waist to keep him upright. Kyle melted into him. He escorted him to the sofa and sat him down. “Maybe this isn’t the right time to be talking about this. You’re unwell, I don’t want to put you under more pressure.”

“No, no,” Kyle waved a hand, “No, I want to…” He trailed off, eyes glazing over momentarily. He shook his head, as if to clear a fog, then winced, and put a hand to his forehead. “Look, this thing, with Pip, it’s too good to pass up. I can’t just let it go.”

Stan looked at him quietly. Christ, he looked so fragile, so frail. Stan wanted to wrap his arms around him, just to keep him from falling apart. He didn’t, of course. “Talking to her again, you’re only going to—You know it’ll end badly.”

“It might,” Kyle sighed, readjusting the sofa cushions, and tucking himself into the corner of the loveseat, “Or it might not. I won’t know until I’ve tried.”

“But I just…” Stan couldn’t bring himself to look at him, for fear his expression might give too much away. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.” Kyle reached out and put his hand gently on Stan’s cheek, tilting it back to look at him. He smiled drowsily, his eyes half-lidded. “It’s alright. Knowing that is enough.”

Stan’s hand floated to rest on top of Kyle’s, as if to check it were really there. It was. God, his hand was so soft, so warm. Stan couldn’t bear it; it was too much. He took Kyle’s hand away and put it gently back in his lap, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Okay,” Stan said. “If you’re sure. If you’re sure that’s what’s best.”

“Mm,” Kyle mumbled. His eyelids were beginning to droop shut again. He blinked them open. “Well, I don’t know whether it’s best, exactly, but… it’s… I don’t know. Something.” He rubbed his eyes and frowned, “Sorry, what was I talking about?”

Stan chuckled. “Nothing important, don’t worry.”

Kyle groaned and rubbed his eyes. “See, this is exactly what I said would happen if I had that cough syrup. It makes everything so hazy. My mind and my mouth get all jumbled up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Coherence is overrated anyway.” Stan glanced back at the kitchen behind them. “I’m gonna get started on cleaning up.”

“I’ll help.” Kyle stood, but swayed again on his feet, increasingly dizzier. He might have tipped forward into the coffee table if Stan hadn’t been there to guide him back onto the sofa.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Stan scolded. “You’re in no fit condition to do that right now.”

“So unfair,” Kyle said, dazed. “I hate feeling helpless.”

Stan rose, “I don’t think you have a choice.” He set to work cleaning the kitchen, washing the rest of the dishes, and storing the leftover soup in a tupperware for Kyle to reheat later. He realised he had not heard Kyle speak for quite some time, a rarity. You okay?” he asked but was met with silence. “Kyle?” He returned to the sofa, and saw Kyle slumped over the end of it. His eyes flickered open, and he sat up.

“Huh?” he murmured, voice slurred by sleep, “Oh, I think I was… I must have dozed off for a second, sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Stan smiled softly as he sat down next to him, “Go back to sleep.”

“M'kay,” Kyle sighed, eyes already closing. He leant back on the loveseat and went out like a light. Body limp, he ended up sliding down, so that his forehead rested against Stan’s shoulder.

Damn that man.

_(Illustration by HamiltrashLyzer1 on Deviant Art -<https://www.deviantart.com/hamiltrashlylerz1/art/yeah-865209143>)_

Stan stiffened. He stared in helpless panic at him, but he was sound asleep, oblivious to any personal crisis he might be responsible for. Slowly, very slowly, Stan shifted his arm so that it came to rest gently around Kyle, who nestled naturally into his chest, without waking. Stan didn’t dare move – he didn’t dare breath. He did not relax until he was certain that Kyle would remain as he was: asleep.

Stan realised he’d been holding his breath and let it out slowly. It was a miracle Kyle wasn’t stirred by the rapid thumping of Stan’s heart against his ribs, which pounded like a drum in his ears. He tried to steady himself, keep cool, but then he noticed that it was not him who was shaking, but Kyle. He was shivering in his sleep. A frown creased his forehead, as if he were dreaming of some great enigma. Without thinking, Stan reached over with his free hand and brushed it, ever so gently. His face relaxed and his eyes opened at the touch, but only slightly.

“Huh?” he mumbled blearily.

“Sorry,” Stan murmured, “You were, ah, frowning.”

“Shouldn’t do that,” Kyle yawned, then smiled groggily. “I’ll get wrinkles.” God, he really was out of it. He hadn’t been kidding when he said the medicine made him a little loopy. He snuggled in further to Stan, and fuck, he couldn’t handle this. This was too much to cope with, Kyle falling asleep nestled against him, so peaceful, so trusting. If this went on any longer, Stan’s heart would explode, or perhaps crumble into dust. He was too sober for this shit.

“We should get you to bed,” he said.

“I’m… I’m fine where I am.”

Stan was not. He was not at all fine, he was freaking the fuck out as silently as he could. He carefully extracted himself, and looked to Kyle, who had slumped further down without Stan’s body to support him. “Kyle, I need you to stand up.”

“No,” he whined, eyes still shut, voice still slurred. “I’ll just stay right here.”

Stan tutted at the dishevelled mess of a man. “Am I gonna have to carry you?”

Kyle giggled to himself, “Looks like it.”

Hell. He was in Hell. Stan was in his own personal hell, where an unseen hand kept on nudging him towards the one thing he could never have, torturing him and his unattainable desire. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why me?” Kyle did not answer, for he was asleep again, but it was rhetorical anyway.

Stan looked from him to the bedroom door: it was open a crack, probably enough to kick open when his hands were otherwise occupied. It had been a long time since he’d had to carry anyone. He slipped one hand under Kyle’s back, and another in the crook of his knees, and lifted him up, bridal style. He was lighter than he expected, but it still was not exactly comfortable. Cheeks burning, he carried him carefully into the bedroom, trying not to bump into anything as he did so. The room was as neat as the rest of the apartment, but luckily the duvet on the bed was folded back, so that he was able to pull the covers up and over him once he had set him down.

Stan was about to bolt for the door but hesitated. He’d gone this far, might as well finish what he’d started. He returned to the kitchen and found a glass. He filled it with cool water and selected an orange from his fruit bowl, before bringing it back to the bedroom and setting both on the bedside table. He dug in his pocket and found the slip of paper with Heidi’s telephone number on it and slipped it under the cup.

He looked to Kyle. Again, that pained expression was back, though he had not yet woken. Stan realised with a lurch that he might be roasting alive underneath the blanket. He pressed his hand nervously to his forehead but found to his relief that Kyle’s fever had subsided. At least that medicine had been good for something.

At his touch, Kyle’s eyes flickered open. He looked at him, and then the nightstand. His focus seemed lucid. “You brought me an orange,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yeah, um, I just—For when you wake up. Vitamin C is important. Fuck, I don’t know.” Stan said, self-conscious, and suddenly second guessing himself. He started to take his hand away, but Kyle caught it.

“Thank you. For everything.” He squeezed it, and let it go. His eyelids drooped shut again and he drifted back into oblivion. He rolled over, curling up into a ball. As he did so, his pillow shifted, revealing what looked to be the edge of a book.

Stan frowned. That couldn’t be comfortable. Carefully, he extracted it from beneath the pillow. It had been tucked under face down, and Stan flipped it over to read the title.

_‘Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male,’ by Alfred Kinsey_

Stan gaped at it. He looked in awe between the cover and Kyle. His back was turned, soft snores emanating from him. Stan looked back at the book, and swallowed, hard. He could feel himself starting to sweat. It was probably nothing, he told himself, just some light reading. If an eight-hundred-page nonfiction work could be considered as such. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he was onto Stan, and who he was, what he was.

But what if it wasn’t for any of those justifications? Perhaps there was a simpler reason a man might keep this book hidden beneath his pillow. But if that was the case…

Just what was this implying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings needed? What a rarity!  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com || Send love to HamiltrashLyzerz1 on Deviant Art for drawing the illustration in this chapter - https://www.deviantart.com/hamiltrashlylerz1/art/yeah-865209143


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, my friends!
> 
> In case you missed it, last week’s chapter has recently been updated to include an illustration by HamiltrashLyzerz1 on Deviant Art!! Pop back to admire it if you’ve not seen it yet :) 
> 
> But what’s this? Another Stan and Kyle centred chapter, back-to-back with the last?? Look at me, breaking my established format. I’m a rebel with a cause, baby (⌐■_■) 
> 
> ( •_•)>⌐■-■ The, uh… the cause is narrative purposes. If you were wondering.
> 
> (ﾒ■_■) Aaanyway lets get on with it…

Kyle decided to let the phone ring a little while before he answered it. He was cool. He was casual. He was itching to answer it straight away.

He counted each trill as it sounded. One…two…three… He made it to five before his body betrayed him, arm shooting out of its own accord and pulling the telephone from its hook. “Hi Stan,” he blurted.

“Hi Kyle,” Stan laughed, “Good guess.”

Kyle gulped. He’d known it would be Stan, he just said so, but that didn’t stop him from feeling strangely flustered. He tried to speak, but his brain was overcome by a wash of white noise, and so his mouth flopped open and closed like a fish out of water. 

“Kyle? You there?”

Kyle shook his head violently, found his voice and used it hastily. “Uh, hello! Yes! Sorry! I—I, um,” he cleared his throat, “The line went all fuzzy. I couldn’t hear you.” Kyle knew he was a bad liar, Stan had told him so, but what else was he supposed to say? ‘Sorry, Stan, I was just completely overcome by the sound of your voice?’ No thanks.

To his relief, Stan did not call him out on his blunder. “How’s that cold doing?” he asked instead. Kyle could not detect any note of concern in his voice. Knowing Stan, he was probably just worried his sidekick wouldn’t be up for whatever scrape they got into next.

“I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”

“That’ll be down to my expert nursing, of course.”

“Oh, obviously,” Kyle scoffed. “If it weren’t for your service, I’d probably be on death’s door. Though, um… I can’t really remember much of it. That cough medicine messed with my head.” Kyle had spent a long time wracking his brain for details, but always came up short. So, like always, he’d just gone back to thinking about Stan. His fixation on him was getting harder and harder for him to justify it to himself, to the point where Kyle had given up making excuses. He felt sure that there was a word which described how he felt about Stan, but try as he might, he could not put his finger on it. Just like the memories of last Sunday, it evaded him, infuriatingly so.

“You don’t remember anything?” Stan asked, and if Kyle didn’t know any better, he might have thought Stan sounded relieved. “Nothing at all?”

“I remember you making the soup. I have zero recollection of eating it, though. I didn’t—I didn’t fall asleep in it, right?”

“Sadly, no,” Stan sighed, “And I was so looking forward to that part.”

“Oh, ha-de-ha,” Kyle huffed.

“So, you really don’t remember anything else?”

“Nope. I don’t even remember getting into bed, but I know that I must have, because that’s where I woke up.”

“Ah,” Stan said, voice tight. “Well, uh, you didn’t miss anything interesting, don’t worry.”

“I assumed as much. It was hardly a high-stakes situation.”

“Obviously,” he chuckled, but he still sounded kind of nervous. Weird. “Oh, shit—Does that mean you forgot to call Heidi?”

“No. I found her number on my nightstand, figured I must have agreed to do it. I had dinner with her Monday night.”

“And how did that go?”

“Fine,” Kyle said, maybe too quickly, “Yeah, it was—fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Well, I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

“Well, the truth would be a good place to start.”

Kyle sat down heavily on the kitchen floor, phone still in hand. His curls formed a cushion as he leant his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. “Yes, okay, so it wasn’t exactly fun. But it wasn’t a nightmare either. We didn’t shout, we didn’t argue, we just talked, you know, went over all the shit that happened between us. Overall, it was… fine.” He opened his eyes, “Yeah, I’m sticking with fine.”

“Oh,” Stan said, almost hesitantly.

“Ah, I bet you were expecting something a lot more dramatic than that, huh?”

“No! Well, maybe. Things were certainly dramatic before.”

“I guess so,” Kyle said, “But I knew what to expect this time. That made it easier.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension that built there whenever he talked about her. “Oh, and I ought to tell you—” He stopped, having lost his nerve.

“What?” Stan asked.

Kyle swallowed, “Well, you know how you said Heidi asked you to kill Cartman?”

“I do,” Stan said slowly.

“Well, she—she asked me about that, too.” Kyle twitched away from the phone at the volume of Stan’s outraged squawk.

“The nerve of that woman!”

“Mm,” Kyle hummed ambiguously.

“She already got her answer: No. Absolutely fucking not. I don’t kill, she knows that already.” Stan continued to grumble to himself but petered off when he realised Kyle was not joining him in his indignance. “You—you did say no, right?”

“I’m a paralegal, Stan, not a trained hitman. What do you think I said?”

“Right,” Stan said, “Yeah, of course.”

Kyle had rehearsed this answer earlier that day. He knew he couldn’t lie to Stan, so had gone with the next best thing: vague implications. What had actually happened was far more complex than he had made it out to be.

“I’m sure Stan already told you about my initial proposition,” Heidi lowered her voice, so as to not be heard by the other diners.

“What, first degree murder?” Kyle said warily.

“Sure, you could put it like that if you want.”

“I’m not fucking around with phrasing, Heidi, that’s literally what it would be – capital murder!” He jabbed his fork at her for emphasis, “Deliberate, premeditated murder!”

She rolled her eyes, as if he were being petty and pedantic over an arbitrary definition, not a severe crime. “Anyway, that’s not the part I’m concerned about.”

“Speak for yourself,” he huffed, “Personally, I find this all quite concerning.”

“Oh, will you be serious!”

“I’m being nothing _but_ serious! You’re the one who—” Kyle caught himself before his voice could rise any higher. He took deep breath. “Sorry. I know we agreed not to fight. I just… Carry on.”

“Eric, if he were to, um… pass away. His inheritance—Where would that go?”

Kyle blinked at her. “You’re coming to me for post-mortem legal advice?”

Heidi shrugged, “Sure. You made it further in law school than I did. And you were always better at it than me. I know you only flunked because our breakup fucked you up so much.”

“I’m not sure you can take all the credit for that. But, uh… thanks?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, inheritance isn’t really my forte. But I’m suppose it would just go to his next of kin.”

She had been anticipating this conclusion, evident by the response, which seemed pre-prepared. “He never married, so not his wife. And it couldn’t be his mother,” she said, “As she’s dead. And he doesn’t even _know_ who his father is, so he’s out of the equation.”

“Okay, well, in that case, it would go to a—” Kyle stopped and stared. He gaped at her and put a hand up to cover his open mouth. “Oh, Heidi, is that why you’re doing all this?”

Heidi did not speak for a moment, just gazed quietly at him. “You know, Eric’s never given me a cent of child support,” she said eventually. “In all these years, not a dime. He knew I was working two jobs to stay afloat, even back when we were together, and his salary is hefty enough to cover it. Even more since he became Chief.” Her eyes were getting watery. It was the closest Kyle had seen her come to crying in a long time. “I’m only asking for Bobby, Kyle. He deserves such a good life, one which I just can’t ever give him. It’s tough enough as it is. There’ve been times where I thought—I thought I might have to—” She let out a dry sob. Kyle put his hands on top of hers, instinctively, then wished he hadn’t.

“There’s grounds to sue for child support,” he said. “Heidi, you could do it, you absolutely have a potential case—”

“No,” she shook her head firmly. “We were never married. Colorado law is too hazy around that sort of thing, you know that, and he’s influential enough to sway a jury. Besides,” she sniffed, “I—I don’t think I could stand to be in a court room with him. I’m not sure I could handle that without…” she trailed off and shivered. “Look, Kyle, all I’m asking is that if – _if_ – anything was to happen to Eric, you’d help me make a case for Bobby to get his inheritance. He probably wouldn’t be allowed access to it until he turns eighteen, but that would still be enough. It would be enough for me to know that he would be alright, eventually.” She smiled sadly, “I want the world for him. I don’t want him to be destined to live the same life I have.”

Kyle bit his lip. “Heidi,” he said softly. “You know I can’t promise something like that.”

“I know,” she breathed. “I know. I just—I thought I’d put it out there anyway.”

And now here he was, lying to Stan about what she’d asked, and all because he couldn’t stand to hear him vocalise his opinion. He knew that it would be of no help. Stan saw everything in black and white, right and wrong. Having spent years working for a defence lawyer, Kyle had long since been disillusioned to such ideals.

He felt like a subject change was in order. “Have you heard from Pip yet?”

“Ah!” Stan said, “Yes, well, that was mainly why I was calling.”

Kyle sat up a little straighter. “You have?”

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe, maybe not. You listen to this and tell me what you think.”

“Alright.”

“So, this morning, I get a newspaper delivered through my door. _The South Park Gazette_. Which isn’t particularly strange within itself, only it’s today’s Thursday, and the new editions I get are published on Sundays.”

“That’s odd.”

“Well, yeah, I thought so too, only then I looked closer and I realise that it ain’t no new edition. In fact, it’s three years out of date – June twelfth, 1945.”

Kyle sucked in a breath. “But that’s—that’s the day—”

“The day Pip died,” Stan said gravely. “Or, rather, the day he faked his death.”

“Have you read it yet?”

“From top to bottom, cover to cover. Not a single mention of him.”

“Oh,” Kyle frowned, “How odd. I mean, I guess it makes sense. He wasn’t exactly in the public eye yet. So then it was completely ordinary?”

“I thought so at first,” Stan said, “Except, then I get to the second to last page.” Kyle heard the rustling of pages from the other end of the line. “In the bottom corner, there’s a little square of advertisements. Nothing out of the ordinary, and I might have skipped right past it, were it not that one of them had a note scrawled next to it in red ink.”

“Which one?”

“It was for the South Park Cemetery.”

Kyle’s stomach dropped. If there was one thing he hated, more than anything in the world, it was graveyards. There was something about walking between row upon row of dead bodies that send shivers skuttling down his spine. He’d got lost in one once, when he was a kid, and it had taken two hours before he’d found another living human being. It might have just been his imagination, but every now and then he’d hear strange noises, ones which would cease the moment he whirled around to check who – or what – was following him. He hadn’t been to a cemetery since and planned to keep it that way until it was for a permanent visit.

“What did the advert say, exactly?” he asked cautiously.

“Something about buying small plots of land for private burials. The details aren’t important, it’s the message, which said ‘Eleven o’clock or later.’ And then next to that, there’s a little drawing of a flower.”

Kyle withheld a sigh. A mysterious invitation to a late-night rendezvous at the South Park Cemetery? Superb.

Kyle did not generally mind the dark. In fact, he sometimes liked it. But that was not what bothered him about this proposition. What set him on edge was the idea of what might be lurking _in_ that dark, unseen before it was all too late. Loitering in a graveyard at such a time seemed to him like practically _begging_ to be murdered.

“So what do you think of that?” Stan asked. “The invitation—At least, that’s what I think it is.”

“Ah. Um. Hmm. Well,” Kyle stalled, “It’s certainly a lot to think about.” He was not about to admit his irrational fear of cemeteries to Stan. He had no doubt that he would be met with merciless mockery. “Um… What sort of flower was drawn?” he asked eventually.

“ _That’s_ the bit you’re interested in?”

“Flowers can have a lot of symbolic meaning!” Kyle hastily justified. “It could be part of the message. So, what was it?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Stan said scornfully. “A flower’s a flower.”

“Only to the uncultured,” Kyle remarked, earning indignant snort. “Just—Never mind. Bring the paper with you tonight, I’ll have a look myself.”

“So we’re going, then?” Stan asked.

“I—uh, yes,” Kyle said begrudgingly, “I suppose we are.” He was only really agreeing to this because he wanted to see Stan again. Maybe if they stood face to face, he’d be able to figure out what word it was that described how he felt about him.

“You’re not worried it might be a trap?” Stan asked. “There’s nothing to say that this is actually from Pip. It didn’t work out so well last time one of us got a mysterious message like this.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, “Neither of us are dead yet, are we? We must be doing something right.”

Stan laughed. “Spoken like a true detective.”

\---

“Stan,” Kyle said, inspecting the paper, which he had resting against his steering wheel of his parked car. “Stan Marsh.”

“Yes, Kyle, Kyle Broflovski?”

“Please explain to me how, in all your years of expertise, you have not picked up the ability to identify a fucking _rose_.”

“Wh—It’s just never seemed a relevant skill to possess!” Stan spluttered in defence.

Kyle wasn’t having it. “That’s embarrassing. Stan, I’m embarrassed on behalf of you.”

“Screw you,” Stan shoved him playfully in the arm.

The contact made Kyle’s stomach feel kind of strange. He still couldn’t place what exactly the sensation was, though, so he set it to the side for now. He started the car and backed out of the space he had pulled into outside of Stan’s apartment.

“So what’s the poetic meaning of this rose, then?” Stan wiggled his fingers sarcastically.

“Well, general floriography would suggest—”

“Floriography?” he interrupted. “That’s not a thing. You made that up.”

Kyle gave Stan a withering look. “Yes, Stan, you’ve caught me. I have conjured up the art of assigning meaning to flowers, just to get one over on you. I also time travelled and am the sole inventor of the widely revered Victorian flower language.”

“You’re telling me there’s an entire language worth of these things?”

“Oh, you bet there is. I went through a phase, in elementary school, where I was obsessed with it. I was determined to memorise the meaning of each one.”

“That’s adorable.”

“I really wasn’t.”

Stan gasped in wicked delight, “Oh, where you terribly irritating as a child?”

“Insufferable,” Kyle confirmed, before muttering, “But at least _I_ grew out of it.”

“I heard that!”

“Heard what?” He feigned confusion. Stan rolled his eyes.

“Anyway. This rose.”

“Right. Well, it’s pretty bog-standard stuff, really: Love. It comes in all varieties, but since it was shaded in red, that probably romantic, specifically. Though it looks like the interior of the petals were left uncoloured, which is interesting. I wonder if that was intentional?”

They drove in silence for a while as they considered this. Kyle found his mind wandering from the case and onto Stan again, as it always did. He began composing a list of potential words. Fascination? No. Enthrallment? Not that either. It was no use. Frustrated, he dragged his focus back to the rose.

“You know what, maybe you were right,” Kyle said, once they’d reached the graveyard. “I’m not sure this has any real relevance. Maybe I’m just getting overexcited, reading too much into things. It’s probably just some doodle.”

“Perhaps—” Stan began, then stopped.

Kyle glanced at him. “What?”

“Well, it’s just a theory, but when I was talking with Heidi last week, she said something about Pip and Cartman’s relationship which got me thinking. I wondered if maybe they were more than just buyer and supplier.”

Kyle frowned. “Well, she said they became friends, didn’t she? But I don’t see—Oh!” His eyes went wide. “Oh, right.”

Stan looked at him, “It’s a stretch, I know.”

“But you might be right. I mean, we already know that Cartman is—uh, you know.” Despite having finished _Sexual Behaviour of the Human Male_ in a week, he still could not bring himself to say ‘bisexual’ out loud.

“Yeah. And Pip’s his type, don’t you think?”

“I…I guess? I’ve never given much thought to what his type might be.”

“Well, it’s something to think about, anyway,” Stan said, as they got out of the car. He tucked the newspaper under his arm, and the torch he’d brought with them into his pocket.

Kyle shivered as he caught sight of their surroundings. Even from a distance the graveyard gave him the creeps.

Tonight they had the luxury of clear skies. Since the South Park Cemetery was right on the edge of town, there was no light pollution to obscure it either. Kyle tilted his head back. The moon hung in the sky, full and round, an unblinking, all knowing eye, surrounded by a smattering of stars. He looked away. Stupid moon, he thought. I bet he knows the word I’m looking for.

Maybe… Maybe ‘hypnotised?’ No, no, that wasn’t it.

“Of course,” Stan said, interrupting his thoughts, “It could just be a sign off, from someone named Rose. Do you know anyone named Rose?”

Kyle frowned, “No, not that I can recall.”

“Damn it,” Stan sighed in irritation.

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yes, but I’d much prefer to figure it out by myself first.”

“Who say’s you’ll be the one to crack it?”

Stan might have retorted, but they reached the cemetery gates and were met with a nasty surprise.

“It’s closed!” Kyle exclaimed. “What the hell?”

Stan inspected the thick chain that bound the tall wrought iron gate shut. He ran his thumb over the rusty padlock, then dug in his jacket pocket. “I should have brought a hairpin.”

“You can pick locks?” Kyle looked at him incredulously.

“Well, sure. It’s a handy skill to have in this line of work. Much more relevant than _flower identification_.”

Kyle shot him a dirty look. “Well, fat lot of good it does us now, if you’ve nothing to pick it with.” He stepped to the side and peered through the railings, which were set upon a meter-high stone wall. By the light of the lone streetlamp, he could just barely make out the first row of headstones. He thought about all the bodies buried beneath them, the rotting flesh, the decaying bones. He felt ill just thinking about it and returned his gaze to Stan, a much more reassuring sight. “Why would eleven o’clock even be suggested, if it was going to be closed?” he asked.

“Maybe it was deliberate,” Stan frowned. “‘Eleven o’clock or later,’ right? The time is vague because it doesn’t matter when exactly we’re here, just so long as there’s no one else about.”

“Great,” Kyle groaned, “So not only were we expected to go to a graveyard at night, but one in which we are isolated and vulnerable. That’s just excellent. Ideal, even.”

Stan was too preoccupied by puzzle solving to engage with his griping. He gazed thoughtfully into the graveyard. “The question is, what is it that can’t be seen?”

“We’ll never know now, if we can’t get in.” Kyle said, secretly relieved.

“Who says we can’t?” Stan shrugged. “We’ll just have to use slightly less sophisticated methods. Hold this.” He handed the newspaper and torch to Kyle, who took them, confused. He gripped the bars, and hoisted himself up, so that he stood on the stone wall section. He jumped, and in one swift movement, he cleared the railings and landed gracefully on the other side, grinning victoriously.

Kyle was not so optimistic. “There is no hope in hell that I’ll be able to repeat that.”

“Sure you can!” Stan said, brushing himself off. “Here, hand me my stuff.”

Kyle did so, threading it through the bars, like he was a prisoner.

Stan set it to the side, safely out of the way. “Give it your best shot. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

Kyle stared at him in horror, “Are you mad?”

“Alright then, I shan’t catch you. Just don’t fall.”

“I’m not doing—that!” Kyle gestured to the railings.

“Fine,” Stan said, “I guess I’ll just go about solving the mystery all by myself.”

Kyle sighed. “Whoever’s on the other side better be worth it,” he muttered as he scrambled onto the wall. He peered apprehensively at the spike-topped railings. “If I fall and break my neck, I’m banning you from my funeral.”

Stan snorted. “Better not fall, then.”

Kyle jumped. He succeeded in getting one leg over, and almost got the second, but the bottom of his trousers got caught on the pointed head of one of the bars. Kyle let out a little yelp as he lost his balance, toppling gracelessly over to the other side. He landed with an _oomf_ in Stan’s arms.

“You’re not very good at following instructions, are you?” Stan chuckled as he set him down.

Kyle glowered at him. He hoped he had not felt how much he was trembling.

“I don’t see why you’re upset. Look,” Stan gestured at him, “No bones broken, no snapped necks!”

“But my _dignity_ , Stan,” Kyle shook his head. “I doubt it shall ever recover.”

“What dignity?” Stan teased, earning a smack on the arm from Kyle.

The dark made it seem as if the graveyard stretched on forever before them. Tall cypress trees grew between graves, casting towering shadows and obscuring the path from view. Anyone could be hidden in those trees. Anything. Kyle would never know until whatever it was had pounced.

An icy sense of foreboding descended. He jumped when he felt someone squeeze his hand, but it was only Stan.

“You alright?” he asked quietly. “You’ve gone awfully pale.”

“Yeah,” he gulped. “Just, um. Not a fan of this sort of place.” He did not let go of Stan’s hand. He felt that the moment he did, he might be lost to the night forever, enveloped in the sinister darkness.

“I can tell,” Stan winced, “That’s quite a tight grip you’ve got on me there.”

“Sorry! I didn’t realise—” Kyle made to let go, but Stan caught his hand again.

“It’s alright. Just, um—maybe a bit looser, yeah?” He adjusted his grip, though he still looked strangely pained.

“I don’t have to—”

“No! I don’t mind,” Stan said hastily, and then his words jumbled into a stream of verbal vomit. “I mean, I’m indifferent! It’s not like I mean anything by it. Because I don’t. Of course I don’t!” He laughed nervously, “God, that would be weird. So weird. But I don’t, though, so, um—” He stopped cleared his throat, “I’m—I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Kyle blinked at him. He’d never seen Stan lose his cool like that before. Weird.

They stood there, staring at each other awkwardly for a moment. Neither let go of each other’s hand.

A sudden snap sounded from ahead. Kyle stifled a whimper but couldn’t stop himself from flinching instinctively closer to Stan. Stan flicked on his torch and swung the beam of light in the direction of the noise. The round, reflective eyes of something small and rodent-like gazed back at them for a split second, before it darted back into the shadows.

“Just a mouse,” Stan said, “That’s all.”

“Just a mouse,” Kyle repeated, letting out a breath. “Nothing sinister about that.”

“Kyle?”

“Yes?”

“If you keep squeezing that tight, my fingers are gonna pop off.”

“Oh! Sorry. That—Is that better?”

“Much.” Stan gave him a tight smile. “Let’s get going, then.”

They began trudging up the path. Stan swung the torch like the lamp of a lighthouse as they walked, illuminating the surrounding area in slow swipes. As they walked further into the trees, the light seemed to dim, drained by the contrast of the intense darkness surrounding them.

“I do wish the message had been more specific about _where_ exactly we were to meet him,” Kyle grumbled.

“So you think it’s a man, then?”

“I reckon so.”

“How come?”

“I don’t think this is the sort of place a woman would have chosen. Meeting two men in a place like this, in the dead of night? That’s—Well, you know. A risk.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Stan said. “I’ve encountered plenty of risk-taking women before. Besides, you’re making an unfounded assumption.”

“And what’s that?”

“That we’d be able to overpower her if we wanted to. We’ve got no weapon, and if a woman _were_ to pick a time and place like this, I doubt she’d come unarmed.”

“Oh,” Kyle said. “Goody. I can’t wait to get shot in the heart tonight when things inevitably go awry.”

“Who says things have to go awry?”

Kyle gave Stan a look. “Stan, when have things _not_ gone awry for us?”

Stan snorted, “Fair enough. Still, of all the places to be shot, a cemetery wouldn’t be a bad one. At least they wouldn’t have far to transfer your body for burial.”

“You’re right. That makes me feel _so_ much better.”

They continued their walk in silence. Every now and then, Stan would bump his shoulder against Kyle’s in gentle reassurance – or perhaps to simply remind him to loosen his grip. Kyle was certainly glad to have him by his side, but his unease only grew as they progressed through the cemetery.

“What the hell?” Stan muttered, when they found they had reached the other side, where a small supply shed was stationed, and the number of graves had thinned out. “Where is this person? What was the point of luring us here if they’re not even gonna show up and shoot us in the head?”

“Maybe we missed them,” Kyle said.

“But _we’re_ not easy to miss, are we!” Stan waved his torch emphatically, momentarily blinding him.

“Ah! Watch it!” He rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

“Sorry,” Stan said sheepishly. “It’s just—If someone were expecting us, they would have found us by now.”

“So… We can go home?” Kyle asked hopefully.

“I’m not leaving without answers,” Stan set his jaw determinedly. “Hang on, let me have another look at that paper.” He let go of Kyle’s hand for the first time in a good half an hour to pull it out of his pocket.

An empty palm felt strange now. Kyle had got so used to his presence. It fit so perfectly. It felt so natural.

Maybe that’s the word I’m looking for, Kyle wondered. Natural. He felt naturally drawn to him.

No, that wasn’t quite it either.

Kyle was finding this whole thing extremely disconcerting. He’d never been at a loss for words before and was always able to rely on his extensive vocabulary. So why the fuck couldn’t he find the right one now? He’d spent all week trying to figure it out, but still he drew a blank.

This…feeling, whatever it was, was starting to turn sicekning. The atmosphere of the cemetery was only making him feel worse. “We should go home,” he said.

Stan ignored him. He knelt down, rested the paper on the path and flipped to the penultimate page, where the message had been written. He shone the torch on the words and read it aloud again. “’Eleven o’clock or later.’ That’s it. That’s all it says.” He sat back on his heels. “God dammit! Would it have killed them to be a little more specific about what _exactly_ would happen here after eleven o’clock?”

Kyle hovered above him, shifting from foot to foot. “I think we should just go home,” he said again, as Stan got to his feet and shoved the paper back in his pocket.

“We can’t. This – whatever it is – is important. I can feel it.”

“I’m not so sure.” Kyle bounced on the balls of his feet, glaring anxiously into the darkness at the rows of headstones. He wrang his hands. “I think this might be a bad idea. I think we shouldn’t be here. I think we never should have come in the first place. I think—I think maybe we should—”

“Snap out of it, Kyle!” Stan put both of his hands firmly on Kyles shoulders, and he went abruptly silent. He still wouldn’t meet his eye, so Stan moved his gloved hands to his face, and tilted his head upwards to meet his gaze. Kyle’s cheeks were set alight. “It’s not like you to be this skittish,” Stan murmured. “What’s got into you?” He examined him from top to bottom for an answer, and another shiver slithered up Kyle’s spine.

“I’ve just felt kind of—distracted, recently,” Kyle mumbled. “It’s throwing me off.” He stepped back quickly and turned away, drawing breath through gritted teeth. He did not want Stan to look at him. He did not know why.

“Distracted by what?” Stan moved to stand in his line of sight once more. Kyle had to suppress a huff at his insistence – could that man not let anything go?

“I don’t know,” he whined, “That’s what’s so distracting. This feeling. It’s like a word, right on the tip of your tongue, and you _know_ you know what it is, but you can’t quite place it.” He pulled on a curl of his hair nervously. “And the more you think about it, the stronger the feeling gets, only you’re no closer to figuring out what exactly that feeling is.” He did not say it was something to do with Stan. From the expression he was given, he wasn’t sure he had to.

Stan set his jaw. His eyes darkened as he continued to study Kyle, who could feel himself shaking under his gaze. He let out a frustrated little sigh and turned away again, but Stan put a hand on his arm and jerked him back.

“Kyle,” he said seriously, tone low. “I’m going to try something, but you have to close your eyes.”

“What? Why do I—”

“Just trust me, okay?”

Kyle swallowed. He took one last glance around. “Alright,” he said. Despite his better judgement, he shut his eyes. “I—I trust you.”

Kyle felt as if he were suspended in a void. The chill of the night air and the infinite darkness created the illusion of a vacuum. It was like he was floating, drifting aimlessly through space.

And then he felt Stan’s hands on his face. He’d taken his gloves off, and his touch was warm, so warm. No longer was he floating, but grounded, tethered to him. “What are you—Mmph!”

The sudden heat and pressure of lips upon his own was staggering. He swooned and put his hands on Stan’s hips to keep himself upright. The white noise that had been buzzing within him fell silent. Without thinking, he kissed back. Mind blank, head empty, nothing but this sensation, right here, right now.

When Stan pulled away, Kyle kept his eyes closed for just a moment longer. Only when he felt his hands slip from Stan’s waist did he open them.

Stan had his hands over his mouth, shoulders heaving. He stared at him with wide eyes, as if equally taken aback at what he had just done. “Sorry!” he blurted, and if there ever was a time for him to apologise, it certainly wasn’t now.

Kyle swayed on his feet as the aftershock flowed through him. “Addiction,” he said, scarcely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the word.” He let out a slow breath, one which he felt as if he’d been holding his whole life. “I’m addicted to you, Stan. I spend every waking moment I’m alone wishing you were by my side, and when you—When you’re with me, I feel—It’s still not enough, because I—I wish—”

“I know,” Stan interrupted, “Kyle, it’s okay, I get it.”

“How—How did you guess?” Kyle knew he should be feeling some sort of panic right now, but he didn’t. A stuporous calm had washed over him.

Stan tilted his head back to look up at the sky, as if drawing strength from the stars themselves. “Maybe I’m a little addicted to you, too,” he muttered.

“Oh,” Kyle breathed, and Stan looked back at him to gage his reaction. “Well. Fancy that.”

Then, like an elastic, pulled to its limit then finally released, they flew at each other. Their mouths collided, and they kissed with fervency and fire. No longer was Kyle plagued by the cold night air. His whole body had been set alight.

Their tongues alternated darting into each other’s mouths, until Kyle felt Stan’s tongue run along the groove between his front teeth, and he met it with his own. Their hands were everywhere at once: on the small of their backs, cupping their cheeks, the back of their necks, knocking off his hat as he grabbed handfuls of hair. They were like drowned men at last breaking the surface for air, taking great lungfuls of each other. Kyle pulled off his gloves and put his fingers to Stan’s face to feel the muscles of his jaw shift, tightening and relaxing as they kissed.

At last they broke. Kyle staggered backwards, gasping for breath, lips buzzing with an excited sort of tingle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Wendy had warned him. She had warned him, that day in her office. ‘Stan’s addictive. It’s so easy to get addicted to him.’ Kyle hadn’t understood then, but he got it now. His infatuation with Stan was all-consuming, inescapable, insatiable.

But Kyle didn’t care. He didn’t care if it was right, he just knew it felt good.

“Shit,” Stan panted. He leant against a tree trunk as he recovered, “That was—” But Kyle was upon him again before he could even finish his sentence. Stan did not protest.

Kyle began with similar ardour as before, but Stan pulled him closer, kissed him slower, as if in reassurance – _I’m not going anywhere_.

Everything around them melted away. No longer frantic, they kissed as if nothing else mattered because it that moment, it didn’t. There was nothing in the world but the two of them. Kyle moaned in pleasure as Stan nipped his bottom lip, basking in the sensation, the glory, the magnificence.

They swayed as they kissed. This morphed into short stumbles, and soon enough they were dancing about the place. Eyes still closed, moving as one, heads bobbing back and forth to unheard music. Kyle let himself be pushed backwards, and so engrossed was he in the passion that he forgot where he was until it was too late. He collided with a headstone and careered backwards over it with a yelp, arms flailing as he hit the ground.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Stan scampered hastily to his side, kneeling next to him.

Kyle rubbed his head. “Fine,” he said, feeling dazed, though more so from the kissing than the collision. He tried to sit up, but his hand pressed down on something small and sharp. “Ow!” he winced and pulled it away.

“What?” Stan peered at the offending object, and then drew in a sharp breath. “Oh—Oh my god. Holy shit, look at this!”

Kyle scrambled upright. Stan picked it up and held the thorny rose between the two. It had been somewhat crushed, but the colour was unmissable. The interior of each petal was white, and the exterior red.

“It’s a Tudor rose,” Kyle gasped. “Of course, it’s—That’s the national flower of England! I should have known; I should have guessed.”

“Pip!” Stan said excitedly. His eyes shone the way they did whenever he was puzzle-solving, in his element. “England—That’s got to be Pip, something to do with him.”

Kyle realised with some disappointment that they would probably not be resuming their kiss. Stan seemed almost to have forgotten it had happened at all, studying the flower with radiant curiosity. Kyle himself might have wondered if it had only been a hallucination, but the red in Stan’s cheeks and the pink in his lips was evidence enough.

Kyle rubbed his head again. If Stan could be professional, then so could he. He’d put it behind them – at least, for now.

Kyle peered at the rose, and then smirked. “Remind me what you said about flower identification being a useless skill?” he said smugly.

Stan rolled his eyes. “Fine. In this one _very specific_ circumstance, it was helpful. I admit it. But—Oh, will you wipe that look off your face!”

“What look?”

“That _I told you so_ one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kyle said breezily, but he did not lose the expression altogether. He _had_ told him so, after all.

A realisation struck him with an unpleasant jolt. He was still sitting on a grave. He was sitting six feet above a dead body. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, wiping his hands on his trench coat. He shivered and turned his attention to the gravestone he had tripped over. “It’s blank,” he frowned, running his fingers over the rough surface. “Not even a name engraved. How bizarre.”

Stan was still sitting on the ground. He was muttering under his breath to himself, unintelligible. His eyes darted back and forth, as if solving some equation that only he could see. Kyle watched his mind work with bated breath. And then, with a start, Stan shot to his feet. A deranged grin split his face.

“Shovels,” he said, “We need shovels.”

Kyle looked at him blankly. He tilted his head, and asked warily, “Why would we need that?”

Stan waggled his eyebrows at him. “Why do you think?”

Kyle’s eyes went wide. He covered them with his hands and groaned. “Oh my god. Please tell me you’re not seriously suggesting we dig up a fucking grave.”

“Think about it,” Stan said, “Just think about it. The tuba rose—”

“Tudor rose,” Kyle corrected automatically.

“Yes, yes, whatever—It was put there deliberately for us. I’m sure of it. And the message, ‘eleven o’clock or later,’ – that was because the graveyard needed to be closed for us to get away with what we need to do.” Stan smacked his forehead and shook his head at his own obtuseness. “We were never meant to meet someone. We were always meant to find _something_.”

“Something,” Kyle repeated. “You mean the evidence, Pip’s evidence. You think that’s what’s buried down there?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. I just know it.” He snapped his fingers, “Oh! And the advertisement in the paper from ‘45, it was for purchasing plots of land in the graveyard. Pip must have seen it that day, the day it was published, and decided that was the only safe place to hide it.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Kyle said. That unease began to slink back. “What if there’s an actual dead body down there?”

“But what if I’m right?” Stan’s eyes shone. He grabbed him, and shook him vigorously, as if to knock some enthusiasm into him. “Kyle, what if I’m right! Christ, we’ll have done it. We’ll have enough evidence to put Cartman away for life.”

Kyle licked his lips nervously. They were very close again, and he wanted to kiss him so, so badly, but he knew now wasn’t the time. “But what would we even do with it once we have it?” he asked. “Stan, doesn’t this situation sound familiar to you? We can’t go to the police, can’t trust most journalists – we’d have no choice but to take it to Wendy, only we can’t anymore, because you won’t—”

“I’ll apologise,” Stan said sharply.

“Stan Marsh? Apologise?” Kyle raised a sceptical eyebrow, which Stan did not seem to appreciate.

“Hey! I’ve been known to do it before, you know. I can swallow my pride when I need to.” He stopped, then sighed, “Look, Kyle, this opportunity is too good to pass up.”

“No,” Kyle shook his head, “This opportunity is too good to be true.”

“No it isn’t. It makes sense. You _know_ it makes sense.”

Kyle was shivering again now. The image of digging up a grave, reaching a coffin and finding a corpse, shrivelled and rotting, filled him with an indescribable icy dread.

“Kyle, please.” Stan clasped his own hands over his. His voice softened, “You have to trust me.” He leant forward until their foreheads touched. “It worked out pretty well last time you did that, didn’t it?”

“That’s not fair,” Kyle huffed, “Don’t use that against me.” But he shut his eyes anyway and was prepared this time when Stan kissed him. It was warm and soft, gentle, and reassuring. He sighed willingly into his embrace.

“Well?” Stan said when they pulled apart, like that had been some sort of persuasive argument.

“I know where we can get the shovels,” Kyle said wearily. He jerked a thumb at the supply shed, not too far off.

“Oh, you clever boy!” Stan beamed at him and ruffled his curls affectionately. A wave of heat crept up Kyle’s thighs. He should not have been as turned on by that as he was.

Stan took off towards the shed, dragging Kyle along with him by the hand. He let go of him halfway so that Stan could grab the torch and paper and Kyle could collect his hat and their gloves, which littered about like casualties to their passion.

“Ah, it’s locked,” he observed when he’d joined Stan at the shed door. “Of course it is.”

“When has that ever stopped us?” Stan peered in through the little window. He began to search the ground for a sizable object, “I’ll just smash the glass.”

Kyle held back a remark that this was a bad idea. That was an obsolete statement. Everything they were about to do was an objectively bad idea. “Wait,” Kyle said instead. He held out Stan’s gloves to him. “In case of any—I don’t know, shrapnel, or whatever. And so there’s no fingerprints.”

Stan put them on and bestowed upon him the torch in return.

Kyle pointed the light at the window.

Stan picked up a rock, roughly the size of a baseball. “Stand back.”

Kyle did.

Stan hurled the stone at the windowpane. The glass shattered with a satisfying _crash_.

The pair approached the wreckage, Stan eagerly, Kyle carefully. He shone the torch light inside. Sure enough, there was a collection of shovels. Stan extracted two of them. He handed one to Kyle and slung the other over his shoulder and marched determinedly back to the grave, Kyle trailing anxiously behind him.

He hung back and watched as Stan began to dig. Stan did not hassle him to pitch in and pull his weight. They both knew Kyle would do so eventually.

“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” he grumbled, when at last he gave in and set to work.

“It’s certainly not the direction I’d predicted this case going,” Stan paused to wipe away the sweat beading on his brow. “But it could be worse.” Digging hard work, harder than they had expected. The earth was made extra difficult to dislodge by how cold the weather had been lately.

“Aha!” Stan exclaimed, when his shovel met with wood.

“So much for ‘six feet under,’” Kyle frowned, “That’s barely two foot deep.”

“Pip probably did it in a hurry,” Stan shrugged, “Can you blame him? He had a death to fake, after all. I imagine that would be pretty time consuming.”

It took a little while longer to get the whole thing uncovered, but they succeeded eventually, after much puffing at panting. They stood side by side over the hole, psyching themselves up to break open the damn thing.

“I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s just gonna be a decaying carcass in there,” Kyle said anxiously.

“Well,” Stan patted him on the back, “Only one way to find out.” He raised his shovel and brought it down on the wooden top. It gave way easily, and he worked his way round one edge until the lid could be removed. “Ready?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle said, covering his eyes. “Do it anyway.”

And so he did.

Kyle heard a shape exhalation. “What?” he said. “What’s in it?”

“Just—look.”

Kyle peered through a crack in his fingers. Inside the casket was a cardboard box. Stan was on his knees and was rummaging within it. Kyle joined him.

“Oh my god,” he breathed as they sorted through the contents. Photos, files, journals, typed up statements and more. A detailed, chronologically ordered account of the South Park Police Department’s reliance on the city’s underground drug market to supply them with the means to justify the arrests of the innocent. And, shit, were there _a lot_ of arrests. Most of which did indeed involve Cartman, to neither of their surprise.

Kyle and Stan exchanged a bleak glance. “This is despicable,” Stan said in awe. “I can’t believe this has been going on for so long.”

“I can,” Kyle said. “I mean, I never knew it was at this scale, but—The PD don’t exactly have a shiny reputation, do they? It’s hardly out of character.”

“In a way, that’s good,” Stan said. Kyle gave him a sceptical look, and he hastily corrected himself. “Not the corruption! Their reputation. The public are far more likely to believe it all when this gets out.” Stan shut the box and set it to the side, before closing the coffin as best he could, making sure all the splinters that had broken off were chucked back inside.

“Speaking of when,” Kyle said, as they stood, and began to rebury it, “When will all this be presented to Wendy?”

“Tomorrow,” Stan said firmly, “Friday. Same time as last week—no, a little after. We don’t want another run in with Bebe.”

Kyle glanced at him incredulously, “I’m not sure it should be a ‘we’ thing. I think it’s best if you two talk it out alone. So you can, you know. Apologise.”

“Oh, I’d forgot I’d have to do that.” Stan’s face fell. “I suppose you’re right. Unfortunately.”

Kyle kissed him then, just quickly, almost timidly.

Stan offered him a smile, but that pained expression from earlier was back.

“Don’t be so glum,” Kyle squeezed his arm. “If Heidi and I made it through an evening together, I’m sure you and Wendy can do the same.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow, “I’m not sure I share your confidence.”

“And if things really do get bad, I’ll be parked just outside, ready to help you get your lighter working.”

Stan snorted, “How kind of you.”

They finished the burial process, but it was still pretty obvious that the earth had been recently turned over.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that,” Stan shrugged. “And I reckon our service to the public by taking down Cartman more than outweighs the property damage. Don’t you think?”

\---

“Ah, Miss Stevens!”

Bebe did not bother to look up from the nail she was filing. She didn’t need to because the thick New York accent already told her it was Jack. “What?” she said flatly. “What do you want?”

“Well—Who says I want anything?”

She raised her head, but only so that he could see her roll her eyes. “Jack, I’ve been working for you for five years now. That’s long enough to be on first name terms. You only ever say ‘Miss Stevens’ when you want something.”

“Oh,” he ran his hand through his greasy dark hair sheepishly. That was why he was an assistant manager, and not a journalist, Bebe thought. He was far too expressive, in a way that journalists could not afford to be. Every little thought he ever had was displayed for all to see on his fresh-looking face. Right now, it was guilt.

“Spit it out,” Bebe gestured with her nail file. “But it had better not take longer than ten minutes to do, because that’s how long I’ve got till I’m going home.”

That guilty look got guiltier. “Look,” he leant on the desk, and lowered his voice, though the lobby was quite empty. “There’s been a little mix up. A very important delivery has been rescheduled to arrive this evening, and I need someone to stick around to sign for it.”

“Well, that someone ain’t gonna be me,” she said airily, “Because I’ve got a date tonight.”

“I know. You’ve been gushing about him all week.”

“I have not!” she said indignantly, even though she absolutely had. “Anyway, if you already knew that what are you bothering me for?”

“Because it’ll be here by seven at the latest,” he said, “So you’ll have plenty of time to get home and doll yourself up, no sweat.”

“I will not! Clyde’s picking me up at seven.”

“So call him and tell him to pick you up here instead.”

She huffed. “And what about dolling myself up?”

“Just do it at your desk,” he shrugged. “I know you got makeup here anyway, because I’ve seen you touching it up when you get bored. Besides,” he ran his hand through his hair again, “You don’t gotta worry about that sort of thing anyway – you’re already beautiful!”

Bebe snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Jack.”

“Well, what if I changed ‘beautiful’ to ‘drop dead gorgeous?’”

She sighed in exasperation. She knew he would not quit bugging her until she gave in. “Just how important is this important delivery?”

“Of the _utmost_ importance.”

“So what is it, exactly?”

“Pens. Ballpoint pens.”

“You’re kidding,” she scoffed.

“Think about it! Can you imagine the chaos if our top reporters didn’t have anything to write with? And who do you think they’d blame for that?”

Bebe tutted. “Fine. Alright, fine.”

Jack flashed her a smile so bright she grimaced. “Thank you, Miss Stevens. You’re the best!”

“Don’t I know it,” she grumbled as she picked up the phone to call Clyde. It was going to be a long night.

She spent the first hour humming along to the music that drifted out of the lobby radio. Eventually, she heard the sound of the turnstile door rotating, and looked up eagerly from the fingernail she was painting cherry red, expecting to greet a delivery boy, laden with boxes.

It was not the delivery boy. It was Stan Marsh.

Bebe was out of her seat so quick she almost spilt the bottle of polish. She planted herself firmly between him and the elevator door, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Stan looked down his nose at her, which was unnecessary, considering that in her heels they were the about the same height. “I have to speak to Wendy.” He tried to step around her, but the heavy-looking cardboard box he was carrying slowed him town, so that his path was easy to block.

“Oh no you don’t,” she put her hands on her hips.

He scowled at her. “Shouldn’t you have gone home by now? What are you even doing here?”

“I could say the same for you!”

“I already told you,” he said slowly, like he was speaking to a child, “I need to speak to Wendy. It’s urgent.”

“That’s not gonna happen. There is no way I’m letting you waltz on up there and harass her again.”

“Harass her?” he gawked. “ _Again_? I’m here on a strictly profession basis! As I was before.”

She huffed. “Oh, my apologies, Mr Marsh. I didn’t realise you were in the business of making women cry.”

“I—she what?” Stan blanched, and dropped the box on his foot. He cried out in pain. Though she knew it was cruel, Bebe couldn’t help but think _good_. He deserved it, for all the wicked things he’d done to Wendy.

“Oh, like you didn’t know,” she scoffed. “Like you had no idea the shitshow you put on last week might have consequences.

He bent hastily to pick up his box again, and when he lifted his face, Bebe was surprised to see genuine shock on his face. “Hang on—She what?” he asked again.

Bebe frowned. “Did you—did you _not_ know?”

“No!” he said, and he sounded almost out of breath, as if this new knowledge had winded him somehow. Still, it was a better alternative to his arrogance. He always had acted like he was better than her.

“Well, what did you expect?” She crossed her arms. “You cheated on her, Stan! You can’t just show up out of the blue and act all surprised when things aren’t sunshine and roses between you two.”

Stan was becoming more and more flustered. “But I didn’t—I didn’t think—”

“Exactly, Stan. You _didn’t_ think. You oughta pick up the habit of doing so.” She looked him up and down and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Maybe you wouldn’t make girls cry if you did.”

He stared at her, at a loss for words. Finally, he said quietly, “But… Wendy doesn’t cry. She never cries.”

“Nuh-uh. She never cries _in front of you_. There’s a difference.”

Stan gave her another blank look.

Bebe could not believe she had to spell it out for him. She rolled her eyes. “You broke her heart, Stan. I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

“Oh.” His face crumbled. For a moment, Bebe almost felt sorry for him. “I—I guess I knew that. I guess I always knew that.”

She sighed. “If you did, then why the hell did you come back?”

He looked numbly down at the box he was holding, and then back up at her. “To give her this. It’s important.”

She went to open the flap, but Stan pulled it away hastily, and hugged it protectively to his chest. “You can’t! It’s for her eyes only.”

Bebe rolled her eyes again. If ‘important’ was anything to go by, it was probably just another box of ballpoint pens. “Look,” she said, “If it’s so important, I’ll she see gets it. But I’m still not letting you up there.”

“But—”

“This is not a negotiable situation, Stan, so don’t try using any of your slick tricks to get past me again. If you do, I’ll call the police, and they can deal with you instead.”

His dejection suddenly morphed into panic. “Hey now,” he said quickly, “There’s no need to do that!” He set the box down on her desk, and parting with like it was a set of precious jewels. Perhaps there really was something worth more than ballpoint pens in there. “Just—make sure Wendy sees it tonight, okay? And make sure no one – and I mean _no one_ – looks in there apart from her. Got it?”

Bebe suppressed a third eye roll. “Loud and clear.”

Stan began to back towards the door, keeping his eyes on his box the whole time. Just before he left, he stopped, and looked to her with a suddenly sombre expression. “Did I really break her heart?”

“Oh, Stan,” Bebe said wearily. “I hope you understand why I’m not gonna dignify that with an answer.” She gave him one last, cold look, before she turned her back on him. She heard the doors turn, and the lobby returned to being filled with nothing but the sound of the radio.

After a few moments she went to the great glass window. She pressed her face to it, to check he was really going, and not trying to sneak in some other way. But he was slinking back to a brown jalopy parked nearby. A redhead got out of it – the same one he was with last week. She watched as this new guy – Not Stan, as she labelled him – registered the slump of his shoulders, and his downtrodden expression. To her surprise, Not Stan went to Stan on the sidewalk, and greeted him with a tight embrace. Stan rested his head on his shoulder, and said something, but Bebe could not make out what. He looked real torn up, which she thought was a bit rich, considering it was _him_ who had cheated on Wendy, who’d broken her heart, not the other way around. Was she supposed to feel sorry for him? Fat chance.

Stan stepped back, and took a packet out of his pocket, and something else – she was too far away to see what. The something else he handed to Not Stan, and the packet he retrieved a cigarette from. She watched with amusement as Not Stan used the something else – which turned out to be a lighter – to light it for him. They exchanged a few more words, and then Not Stan went and got back in the car. Stan opened the door on the passenger side but looked back.

He made direct eye contact with her. Bebe flinched but did not look away. Okay, so he’d known she’d been looking – so what? She waved at him sarcastically to show she didn’t care. He waved back, half-heartedly. Then, he said something, or rather, he mouthed it. Just one word.

“Sorry.”

And then he disappeared inside the car.

Bebe did not move for quite a while, frozen in disbelief. That couldn’t have been right. She must have misread what he’d said. Stan Marsh did not apologise.

Bebe glanced back at the box sitting innocently on her desk. “Whatever’s inside must be real important,” she mused aloud, “If it’s enough to make him say that.” She went to it and ran her fingers along the top. What was it that he was so concerned she didn’t see? And why’d he become all antsy when she mentioned the police? She still didn’t trust him not to have pulled some mean trick with whatever’s inside, his way of getting the last word. If that’s the case then I can’t let Wendy see this, she thought. It wouldn’t be right. He would not hurt her again, not if Bebe could help it.

So Bebe opened the box.

“Why, it’s just a bunch of dirty old papers,” she exclaimed at first. But Bebe spent most of her days sorting through bunches of dirty old papers, so she set to work doing just that to these.

She very quickly realised they were not just dirty old papers.

“Oh my God,” she whispered in horror. Her eyes began to blur with tears, but she blinked them back. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” This couldn’t be real; It just couldn’t be.

But it was. She knew it was. She spent the next hour reading every bit of paper in the box, each one reinforcing and reconfirming that this was nothing but the truth.

Clyde. The thought of him burst into Bebe’s head like a bullet. He was a police officer, and he worked for Cartman. He must be a part of this. She rifled back through the collection for any mention of his name but found none. She noticed the latest date on the records was June 12th, 1945. Of course – Clyde hadn’t enrolled in the force until ’46, he’d told her himself.

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” she whispered erratically to herself. Tears were streaming down her face. “Maybe he has no idea. He mustn’t! He can’t. He—” Her voice broke on a sob. “He can’t know! He wouldn’t be a part of something like this!” She stumbled back like the box was scalding hot.

Wendy. She had to call Wendy. Wendy would know what to do. Hands trembling, she dialled the number for the phone up in her office.

“Hello?”

The sound of her friend’s voice was a beacon of familiarity. “Wendy,” Bebe sobbed, “Oh Wendy, I—I—” she couldn’t get the words out, her tears were getting in the way.

“Oh, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Bebe glanced at the door. “I—You need to get down here. Stan came, and—I can’t leave my desk, I’m waiting for a delivery, but—”

“What did he do?” Wendy’s tone was suddenly cold. “What did he say to you? I swear to God, if he—”

“No, you don’t understand!” Bebe sniffed. “He brought a box—I wasn’t supposed to look—But I had to, I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t hurt you, so—”

“I’m coming down,” Wendy said, “Just hang tight.”

Bebe sat down heavily in her chair. She stared numbly at the box in front of her. “What the fuck?” she whispered to herself, through little hiccupping sobs. “What the actual fuck?” She did not look up until she heard the ding of the elevator and Wendy’s rapid footsteps as she crossed the lobby.

“Oh Bebe!” Wendy came to her, hauled her to her feet and flung her arms around her in a tight hug. Bebe melted into her embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled, “I just—I can’t—It’s just a lot to process.”

“What is?” Wendy pulled back and studied her face. Her long dark hair was tousled, the way it always was when she got lost in her work, because she had a habit of twisting bits of it as she thought.

“In there,” Bebe gestured to the box.

Wendy looked at it and sighed. “Is this about Cartman and that prostitute again?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Wendy observed Bebe’s visible confusion. “Um…forget I said anything. Doesn’t matter.” She began to have a look through. “Oh, it is about Cartman! I already told Stan I’m not interested in working with him if—” She stopped short. She did not speak again for several minutes.

“Well?” Bebe asked when she realised Wendy planned on going through the whole thing. She didn’t have the patience to wait that long.

“It’s certainly a lot to take in,” Wendy said dubiously.

“Understatement of the year,” Bebe snorted. She had recovered from her crying now, but not fully from the shock.

“Where on earth did Stan get all this?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say. He was just insistent on seeing you, but I wouldn’t let him. I thought he was only here to pick a fight with you, like last time. I—Oh God!” Bebe put a hand over her mouth in horror, “I threatened to call the police on him! No wonder he backed off so quickly.”

“It’s okay,” Wendy said, “You were just trying to do the right thing. But you don’t have to protect me. I can look after myself.”

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Wendy squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not afraid of getting hurt. I can handle it.” She paused and tilted her head. “Was Kyle with him?”

“Who?”

“Ginger fella.”

“Oh—Um, yeah. He didn’t come in though. But I saw him outside, with Stan.” Bebe could not tell whether Wendy was displeased by this information or not.

“Did Stan say anything else? Anything at all?”

Bebe wracked her brain, but the conversation seemed like a lifetime ago, despite the fact that only an hour had lapsed since then. “Oh,” she said, “Yeah. Right before he got in the car, he mouthed something at me. Only—I think maybe he meant for me to pass it along to you.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry.”

Wendy actually laughed.

“I’m not joking! I—I couldn’t hear him through the glass, but that’s definitely what he said.”

“Well, I’ll be,” she shook her head. “I guess miracles really do exist.”

Bebe stopped. A terrible realisation dawned on her. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Clyde’s picking me up in—” she glanced at the clock, “Five minutes! Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Right, okay,” Wendy said, looking alarmed. “That’s fine. This is fine. I’ll just go put this in my office.”

“Is that safe?” Bebe asked, “You ought to hide it somewhere better than that.”

“I will,” she said, “Later. When I have the time.” She scooped up the box and legged it to the elevator.

And then Bebe was alone again. She looked down at her hands and realised she’d only finished painting four and a half nails. But she did not bother finishing the rest of them. It seemed silly now.

Restless, she began to wander aimlessly around the lobby. She stewed over the contents of the box, but did not get long to do so, because all of a sudden Clyde was coming through the doors, a big, goofy grin on his face.

“Evening, Miss Stevens!” he said cheerfully, but his expression faltered when he saw the look on her face. “Gosh, are you alright? Have you been crying?” He tried to go to her, but she jerked away.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

He put his hands up, “Alright! I was only trying to help.”

Bebe stared at him for a long moment without saying anything. He was so chipper, so outgoing, so—so _nice_. It was impossible to believe that he could have any part to play in such an evil enterprise. And yet…

“Did you know?” The words came out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

“Know what?” He wrinkled his round face in confusion.

“That the South Park Police Department plant cocaine on arrestees.”

Clyde’s stiffened. She saw his hands clench by his side. He quickly pulled himself together, but it was too late.

Bebe had gotten her answer.

“What are you on about?” he laughed uneasily. “That’s absurd.”

“Oh my God,” she put a hand over her mouth. “You did. You do. Hell, I bet you’ve even done it yourself!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was starting to sweat. “ _You_ don’t know what you’re talking about!”

His denial fell on deaf ears. Bebe was spiralling, devastated by this revelation. She gagged, “I can’t believe—I was gonna let you kiss me tonight! I thought I’d finally met a nice guy, but _no_.”

Clyde looked pretty upset himself. “I am a nice guy!” he said angrily. “I don’t understand. What’s happened. Miss Stevens, where did you hear about these—these unfounded rumours? Where—”

“Don’t answer that.”

Bebe whirled around. She had been so overwhelmed that she hadn’t even heard the sound of the elevator as Wendy returned.

“And who exactly are you?” Clyde crossed his arms. “Are you the one who’s been putting these thoughts in this poor girl’s head?”

“Wendy Testaburger,” she said coldly. She was an expert at giving disdainful looks, and she gave him a particularly devastating one now. “And they’re not thoughts. They’re the truth, and you know it.” She pulled out her reporters’ notebook and pen. “Tell me, Mr Donovan, how long have you been engaged in these illegal activities?”

Clyde gaped. “I—I never—”

“At least a few years, I’m assuming. Tell me, how do you sleep at night?”

Clyde scowled, “I sleep just fine, but I hardly see what that’s got to do with this.”

“So the knowledge that there are innocent men and women wasting their life away behind bars thanks to your behaviour doesn’t bother you in any way?”

“What?” Clyde squawked. “I didn’t say that!”

“Oh, so it _does_ haunt you then.” Wendy scribbled in her notebook and gave him a cool smile. “Can I quote you on that?”

His scowl deepened. “How dare you! How dare you insult an officer like this! Why, I oughta—”

“Ought to what, exactly, Mr Donovan?” Wendy smirked. “Oh, _do_ lay a hand on me! Go on, I dare you. I’m sure the public will be so much more forgiving once they find out that you get violent when you feel your authority isn’t being respected.”

Clyde’s protestations momentarily dissolved into wordless grunts and huffs. It was no use. Wendy Testaburger was far too clever for him. He looked to Bebe, but she had adopted a similar expression of distaste.

“Get the hell out of here, Clyde,” she said curtly, and when he made no move, added, “Don’t make me call the cops on you.”

With a final howl of outrage, Clyde stormed off.

As the dust settled, Wendy put her arm around Bebe. “Well done,” she said, “That must have been tough, standing up to him. I’m very proud of you.”

“You were the one who kicked his ass, not me. I was freaking out. I can’t believe I _dated_ that guy.” She looked at the door. “What a dirty rat. I’m glad to have seen the last of him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Wendy said dubiously. Bebe might have asked what she meant, but she found herself being pulled into hug, and accepted this with gratitude. They just stood like that for a while, shaking a little.

A polite cough interrupted them. Bebe pulled back and saw a young man carrying two large boxes with _this way up_ printed on the side. “Sorry to disturb you, ladies, but I’ve got a bulk delivery of ballpoint pens that needs signing for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings needed!  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

“We have got to stop going to Jimmy’s Ritz.”

Craig glanced at Tweek, fidgeting with the edge of his scarf as they walked back up the alleyway. “I thought you liked it there.”

“I do!” Tweek said hastily. “I like the place, I like the music, and I like the people.” He tilted his head, “Well, I like Heidi. I _tolerate_ Bradley.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” he pulled a face, “Is the booze. It’s so bad that I never have enough to get even a little bit drunk. Which means there’s literally no benefit for drinking them in the first place.”

“My dad always told me that the worse something tasted, the better it was for you.”

“You’re right, Craig, the moonshine’s nutritional value makes it all worthwhile.”

“The only reason I always take you there is because I don’t want to run into anyone I know,” Craig said, “But the night is still young, or whatever they say. We could find another place if you know one.”

Tweek checked his watch impulsively. “I mean, I guess there’s Skeeter’s.” He raised his eyebrows when he saw Craig grimace at the name. “You been there before?”

“Oh yeah,” Craig laughed hollowly, “Quite a few times. I doubt I’d be welcomed back with open arms.”

“Oh, I see. You break too many hearts?”

“That depends on whether you count police raids and arresting people for homosexuality as heart breaking.”

“I—I don’t think I would,” Tweek’s eyebrows went up. “When was that?”

“A few months ago. It’s happened before, but this time I was unlucky enough to be dragged along.” Craig’s face was dark. “Cartman always gives us a quota for the number arrests we have to make during raids. Eight people between us. Course, he didn’t call them people.” He shook his head. “I did what I could, tried to stall the other cops whilst some folk snuck out the back door, but—Well, we hit our quota anyway.”

Tweek swallowed. “Okay, so…not Skeeter’s, then.”

Craig cleared his throat, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring down the mood. Is there somewhere else you had in mind?”

Tweek paused. “There’s Tiff’s, I suppose, but—Is it lame of me to suggest we just call it a night and go back to yours?”

“Not at all,” Craig cracked a smile, “I was hoping you’d say that.” Just before he got in the car, he brushed his knuckles against Tweek’s, their gesture they had developed as a placeholder for public affection. A thrill ran up Tweek’s arm and down his legs. He was already anticipating what they’d get up to when they got back.

It had been exactly one week since they’d first slept together, and every subsequent night so far had been spent in a similar fashion. It was surreal, in a way, for Tweek to spend so much time outside the confines of his own apartment – but he certainly wasn’t complaining. He’d never been in a relationship like this, one which brought more joy than anxiety. Craig was stable. He was reliable. He was also really fucking good in bed.

“Tweek? Hello, Tweek, do you read me?”

He blinked and registered that a hand was being waved in front of his face. The hand belonged to Craig. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Quite a lot of somethings, actually, before I noticed you’d checked out.” Craig frowned, “Are you alright? You’ve gone kind of… red.”

“I’m fine!” Tweek giggled nervously, “Just got kind of distracted.” He glanced down at the hairbrush in his hand. He’d had brought some things from his apartment to Craig’s a few days ago – clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing – when it had become apparent that he would be spending a lot more time here. The hairbrush had fallen out of his bag when in the car, but he’d never bothered to take it out because he liked to fiddle with the bristles whilst they were going places. Besides, Craig was happy to let him use is own.

“What was it you said?” Tweek asked before he could be interrogated on what exactly he’d been distracted by, putting the hairbrush back away in the glovebox.

“I said, ‘Do you think Heidi seemed a little off tonight?’”

“Oh.” Tweek scratched his head. In truth, he hadn’t really been paying attention, but he thought it might be rude to say so. “Um—Maybe? I guess she did seem less… enthusiastic.”

“That’s what I thought,” Craig nodded. “It might be nothing, I don’t know.”

“I liked the roses that she put at all the tables tonight,” Tweek smiled, “They were pretty.”

“I bet she’d have let you take one home, if you’d asked.”

“I don’t know. Fancy red and white petals? Those were probably expensive.”

They arrived at Craig’s. Tweek hopped out eagerly and was about to go up the path but saw just in time why that would be a very bad idea. He stopped abruptly, paralysed.

Craig came up beside him, “What’s—” Tweek put his hands over his mouth to shut him up. “What the hell?” he said from behind them, muffled.

“Shush! Be quiet,” Tweek whispered. “Don’t say another word, just—look.” He nodded in the direction of the door.

Craig’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit,” he murmured. “What the hell is _Clyde_ doing here?”

But for whatever reason, he was indeed here, sitting on Craig’s front step. He did not appear to have noticed them yet, for he was too preoccupied with a mostly empty bottle of booze, muttering under his breath between swigs.

Tweek’s mind was racing. There was not enough time to escape, so they needed some justification for why it was that the two of them were together. The truth, for obvious reasons, would not cut it. He looked to Craig for any ideas, but he was frozen in place, apparently equally overwhelmed by panic.

Tweek racked his brains, and a thought surfaced. “Craig,” he whispered, “You know how you play Bad Cop at work sometimes?”

“Sure,” Craig said slowly.

“Well I need you to do that now. I hope you’re confident with your improv skills.” Judging by the look he was given, he was not.

Too bad. He didn’t have a choice.

“Okay, here’s the premise: Cartman’s told you to beat me up, because he didn’t like how I was going round, telling his cronies ‘bout how he treated me unfair, gave me that black eye.”

“You’ve still never told me how you actually got it,” Craig frowned, but Tweek flapped his hands dismissively.

“Now’s not the time!”

“I don’t think this is such a good idea. I can’t—I could never hurt you, Tweek!”

“You don’t have to. The trick to stage combat is that the one who’s getting beat up is in control the entire time.”

“What? I don’t—”

And then Clyde looked up. He saw Craig. He saw Tweek. Confusion passed over his face.

“No time to explain,” Tweek hissed, “Just follow my lead.” He grabbed Craig’s hands, put them to his own chest, and then shoved, and toppled backwards. He squealed loud enough for Clyde to hear as he hit the ground.

“What’s going on?” Clyde’s voice was slurred. Jesus, he was shitfaced, Tweek thought. But he knew that was to their advantage. Drunk people were far easier to manipulate.

Tweek pretended not to hear him. He kept his wide eyes fixed on Craig as he stumbled to his feet. “What the fuck! I said I’d keep quiet!”

Craig stared at him. For a moment he seemed lost for words, but then suddenly something in him changed. It was like he flicked a switch, one in which all the life was immediately sucked out of his eyes. A shadow passed over his face, and Tweek was reminded of the bone chillingly impression he’d given the night they’d first met.

“That doesn’t undo what you've already said,” Craig growled. "Who you've already told." He raised his hand, and Tweek caught it by the wrist. He brought it to his head, so that it appeared that Craig’s closed fist had grabbed him by the hair. Tweek dragged himself around, whining in pain.

“Woah! What the hell, Craig?” Clyde staggered unsteadily down the path. “What are you doing?”

“Stay out of this, man,” Craig snarled with such menace that Tweek thought inwardly that his talent was waisted in the force.

Tweek released his grip on Craig’s wrist, as if Craig had let him go. He groaned and rubbed his head.

“What did you expect would happen if you went about spreading rumours about the Chief?” Craig barked. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

“It wasn’t a rumour!” Tweek moaned, “He gave me a black eye!”

Craig cracked his knuckles, “Well, lucky for you, he’s sent you another.” Tweek was ready when he swung his fist, already positioned just far enough away that he wouldn’t quite make contact. At just the right time, Tweek slapped the side of his leg, and the sound of a collision combined with his own scream of agony was enough to convince their audience of one that he’d been hit. He stumbled backwards, whimpering, clutching at his face.

“Stop it!” Clyde, who’d been struggling with the latch on the gate, finally got it open. To Tweek’s surprise, he moved protectively in front of him, with his arms out like a crossing guard. “Cut it out!”

“I’m not doing this for fun, Clyde,” Craig snorted. “It’s my job. You know how the Chief gets.”

“But—But this is wrong!”

“Oh, like that’s ever stopped _you_.”

Clyde scowled. “Well, I’m putting my foot down! You can’t do this.” He raised his fists threateningly, a ridiculous gesture considering how much smaller and drunker he was than Craig. “. I won’t let you!”

Nonetheless, Craig put his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright! No need for that, man, I’ll back off.”

Clyde put his arm around Tweek, though this might have just been to keep himself upright. Tweek made sure Clyde could feel how much he was trembling. “Come—C’mon buddy,” he slurred, “I’ll drive you home.”

“Thanks,” Tweek said shakily as he was led away. He glanced over his shoulder and dropped the act long enough to wink at Craig. He chewed his lip and nodded in return, but there was something off about the gesture – too curt, too formal. Tweek wanted so badly to run to him, to wrap his arms around him and never let go, to soften his face with kisses and whispered promises, but Clyde was leaning too heavily on him.

The show was not over yet.

“Here we are,” Clyde said when they reached his cruiser which was parked just down the street. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys but ended up dropping them on the sidewalk. Tweek scooped them up before Clyde had a chance to.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said, “How about _I_ drive _you_ home, huh?”

“No!” Clyde whined, “I don’t wanna go home. Let’s go out for drinks instead.”

“I don’t have any money on me,” Tweek mumbled.

“That’s alright,” Clyde patted him on the back, “It’ll be my treat. To make up for what happened.”

Tweek looked back at where they’d come from, and then at the dishevelled man before him. He knew he was obligated to humour him. “Fine,” he said, “Let’s go out for some _specifically non-alcoholic_ beverages.”

Clyde threw his hands in the air and cheered, but knocked himself off balance, and had to lean on the bonnet of the car for support.

Tweek withheld a sigh. This was going to be a long night.

Being back in Clyde’s police cruiser reminded him of the first night of his job for Stan. The night he’d met Craig. Tweek felt a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him, despite the fact that it had happened only a few weeks ago, and that he’d not exactly enjoyed himself at the time. It felt strange to be in the driver’s seat now. He didn’t like driving, but he liked the idea of Clyde driving in his condition even less.

Tiff’s was humming when they arrived, which was to be expected, considering it was Saturday night. They managed to find a table near the back with only one chair, which Tweek chaperoned Clyde to. “Stay here,” he said, “I’m gonna go find another seat to bring back.” He scanned the bar. The chorus of conversations happening at once was disorientating, and he was not enthused by the prospect of figuring out which one to interrupt to request their spare chair. Maybe he should just stand.

“You can have my seat!” a voice said from behind him – one with a distinctly Southern tang.

Tweek whirled around. A boyish blond bounded upright and moved to the booth side of his table. He slid onto the bench beside his friend in an orange parka.

“Oh, um, you don’t have to.” Tweek felt himself twitch, self-conscious. He hated talking to strangers. He knew he was not good at first impressions.

The blond beamed at him, “It’s no trouble, mister!”

“Well, thank you, then.” Tweek picked up the chair awkwardly, and the other, taller man caught his gaze. His eyes were a dark brown and seemed to bore right into Tweek’s soul. He winced and hastily returned to his table. He sat down but did not take off his coat. He did not plan on staying long, and besides, he felt as if it provided some sort of protective layer from the crowd.

A waitress was approached, and Clyde perked up. “We’ll have—”

“Just water, please,” Tweek interjected before he could order any more alcohol. “And, um, do you have anything to eat? He needs sobering up.”

“I—I don’t!” Clyde hiccupped, “I do not!” He did.

“I’ll see what I can find,” the waitress said.

Tweek wasn’t sure to be disgusted by Clyde or pity him. “Look at the state of you, man,” he shook his head. “Why did you get so pissed? And what were you even doing outside Craig’s to begin with?” Clyde scowled, and Tweek hastily added, “Not that—Not that I’m ungrateful! I am. You really saved my skin. I just—I’m curious.”

Clyde looked at him and glowered down at his empty bottle and muttered something into it.

“Huh?”

He said it again, louder. “Bebe dumped me.”

“Who?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.

“This doll I was seeing.” He had not lost his angry expression, which Tweek was not surprised by. Clyde was always volatile and emotional when drunk – though he was often like that when sober, too. “I really liked her, y’know. I thought it was going so well, but then—Things went pair shaped. Before I knew it, she’d kicked me to the curb.”

Tweek reached across the table and patted Clyde’s arm awkwardly. “That’s rough, buddy.”

God, he did not want to be here, in this shitty bar, with this shitfaced friend. He wanted to be with Craig. Tweek had to fight to stop his mind from wandering into fantasies of what he might be doing if he didn’t have to be here right now.

“Yeah,” Clyde sniffed. “And it’s all her bitch of a friend’s fault, I’m sure of it. If it weren’t for her—” he shook his head. “Well, anyway, she’ll get her comeuppance.”

That didn’t sound good. “What do you mean?” Tweek asked warily.

“Nothing,” Clyde said darkly. “Nothing at all.”

“No, Clyde, what do you mean by—”

“I said it was nothing!” Clyde slammed his fist down on the table. The sound was loud enough to attract the attention of others around them, including the blond and the man in the parka.

“Okay, okay!” Tweek said quickly, “Forget I ever asked.” Their specifically non-alcoholic waters arrived, along with two bags of chips. To Tweek’s relief, Clyde’s rage subsided at the appearance of food, and he fell silent for a few minutes, pleasantly preoccupied.

“I keep thinking about what Craig said,” he said after a while, his mouth full.

Tweek grimaced and averted his gaze. “Which part?”

“’Bout how something being wrong never stopped me.”

“Oh,” Tweek said, and then, carefully, “Do you disagree?”

“Something ain’t wrong if it’s done for the right reasons. For the greater good.”

“You think so?”

Clyde shifted in his seat. “Well, sure. I mean—I’m not saying I never made mistakes! Course I have. Everyone does, don’t they?”

“What kind of mistakes?” Tweek tilted his head “What’s the worst mistake you’ve ever made?”

Clyde did not answer, and Tweek was worried he’d crossed a line, but then he spoke. “I shot a man once,” he said plainly. “Seven times.”

Tweek’s blood ran cold.

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Clyde shrugged, “I was just inexperienced back then. I’d not been on the force very long. A few months, maybe? Up until that point, all I’d been doing was issuing parking tickets, but when we got a call from someone claiming there was a hostile man making threats in a shopping centre, it was all hands on deck, including mine. We get there, and was this man who—”

“I know.” Tweek put his hands over his ears. He couldn’t bear to hear the rest of the story. “I—I read about it, in the paper. But I didn’t—” He looked at him with unbridled horror, “I didn’t know it was you who’d done it.”

“Well what was I meant to do? He was shouting and screaming, and the crowd was panicking, and _I_ was panicking, and—”

“Not have shot him!” Tweek exclaimed, almost mystified as to how he’d not considered that. “You could have _not_ murdered someone! That was a very real option.” He watched Clyde grimace as he said that word: ‘murder.’

“But I didn’t know! They don’t prepare you for shit like that, and everything happened so fast.”

“But de-escalation—”

“—Is not something we’re taught!” Clyde cut him off angrily. “At least, not in enough detail that I had any idea what to do.”

The crowd seemed to be swelling, growing louder. Tweek pushed down his mounting anxiety. He had too many questions to break down now. “How do you even still have a job?” he asked. “How are you not _behind bars_?”

“Why would I be?” Clyde looked at him in genuine confusion.

“Because you fucking killed someone!”

“Woah! Keep your voice down, man.” He glanced around nervously. “Look, I’m not pretending I did the right thing. It was a mistake—”

“One which anyone else would have faced consequences for—”

“But think about all the lives I’ve saved on the force! All the citizens I’ve protected, all the times I’ve put my life on the line to do so.”

Tweek shook his head in disgust. “Human life doesn’t work like that, man. Just because you save someone’s life doesn’t mean you get a licence to kill. To _murder_.”

“Will you quit calling it that!” Clyde had the audacity to look irritated.

“Well, it can hardly be referred to as manslaughter, can it? I’m fairly certain a judge would have a hard time believing you _accidentally_ shot Thomas seven times.”

“Who?” He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, was that his name?”

Tweek gritted his teeth, “You don’t even know his name?”

“I guess I forgot.”

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Clyde. His friend Clyde, the Clyde he’d known since elementary school, the Clyde who he’d watched grow from a boy into a man – that Clyde. That Clyde had _killed_ someone. He’d killed someone, and he didn’t see anything wrong with it at all. It was incomprehensible. He didn’t want to believe it. But he did. Because it was true.

Tweek couldn’t stomach it. He couldn’t stay here any longer, he had to get out of here.

“Where are you going?” Clyde asked in confusion as Tweek pushed back his chair.

“For a smoke.”

“Oh. You don’t have to go out for that, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed to do that in here.”

“I know,” he snapped, “I just don’t want to.” He wove between the crowded tables and the as quickly as he could and bolted out the door.

The cold air was like a slap to the face. It was enough of a shock to knock him out of the chaotic spiral he was on his way down, at least momentarily. He sat down heavily at one of the rickety wooden tables stationed outside Tiff’s. He put his head in his hands and stared down at the slats.

I will not cry, he told himself. Not here, not now. He stared at his watch, tried to pace his breathing, but it wasn’t working. So instead, he screwed his eyes shut, and imagined Craig was with him, counting the beats. In… and out. In… and out. In—

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you have to actually _have_ a cigarette in order to smoke one.”

Tweek opened his eyes with a shriek. The man with the orange parka had somehow materialised on the fold out chair opposite his. “Jesus! How long have you been there?”

“Oh, not too long,” the man said breezily. He was blond, like his friend from back inside, but it was a darker dirtier sort of blond. He dug in his coat pocket, produced a pack of cigarettes, took one out and offered it to Tweek.

“Oh. Um, thanks.” He took it, and the man took one for himself. He leant across the table to light Tweek’s, and then his own.

Tweek took a gratifying pull. He did not make a habit of smoking but indulged when there was no other way to calm down.

The man was squinting at him as he smoked his own cigarette. “Have we met before? You seem kind of familiar.”

“I don’t think so.” Tweek squirmed under his piercing gaze.

“What’s your name?”

“Tweek,” he said warily, as if this information might be dangerous to disclose.

The man’s face lit up. “Oh! I know you. You’re an old pal of Stan Marsh, aren’t you?”

Tweek narrowed his eyes, “How do you know that?”

“Cause I’m a friend of his, too. He’s mentioned you before.” The man stuck out his hand, cigarette still lodged between his fingers. “I’m Kenny, by the way.”

Tweek stared at his hand. “I’d shake it, but, um…”

Kenny looked down. “Oh! Right.” He stuck out his left hand instead, which was not holding a smouldering object, and Tweek shook it awkwardly. “Your conversation looked pretty heated in there.”

“Were you listening?” Tweek asked, panicked.

“No, but I could see the look on your face as you two talked. I came out here to check if you’re alright.” He chuckled when he saw Tweek’s sceptical expression. “Alright, yes, also because I’m nosy. So what happened?”

“I just found out the man I’ve been friends with for twenty years is a murderer,” Tweek blurted, even though he knew he shouldn’t.

Kenny threw back his head and guffawed. Unsure why he was doing that, Tweek laughed nervously too. “Seriously, though,” Kenny pointed his cigarette at him, “What happened?”

Tweek looked at him blankly. “I just… I just said.”

Kenny stared at him for a long second. “Wait, for real?” His eyes went wide.

“Why would I joke about that?”

“I don’t know, I just thought—Holy shit, man.” He ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it up. “That’s—a lot.”

Tweek said nothing. He to busy motoring through his cigarette in a desperate attempt to stay calm. Why, oh why, did this man have to have followed him outside? Could he not be left alone to have a panic attack in peace?

“Well, fuck,” Kenny shook his head. “You’re gonna need something more than a cigarette after that. Let me buy you a drink.”

“No,” Tweek said, and he stood, “No thanks.”

“Where are you going?”

“I… I don’t know.” Tweek realised with a surge of panic that he had been so preoccupied with his thoughts about Craig that he’d not paid attention to the route he’d driven here. “I mean, I know where I want to get to, just not how to get there.” Getting _into_ town was easy – all the roads in South Park inevitably lead into the heart of the city, one way or another. Figuring out how to get back to Craig’s was an entirely different ordeal. And with no money for a taxi, he’d have to do it on foot. “I’ll be fine,” he said, more to himself then to Kenny. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Wandering the streets of South Park on a Saturday night?” Kenny frowned, “That’s a dangerous thing to do. There are all sorts of evildoers prowling about. I should know.” He put a hand on Tweek’s shoulder, but he flinched quickly away from his touch, “I’ll drive you.” He nodded to the door back into Tiff’s, “Let’s go, Butters.”

The other man, who’d vacated the seat for him earlier, appeared from inside. Tweek was not thrilled to see that he had an audience of two now.

“We’re parked just a few streets over,” Kenny said.

“But you don’t even know where I’m headed,” Tweek mumbled, “It could be out of your way.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Kenny smiled. “We’ve got no place to be.” He began to skip – actually _skip_ – off down the sidewalk, with Butters trotting along behind him.

Tweek stared at him in disbelief.

Kenny turned back and beckoned him to follow. “Come on then!”

“Why are you doing this?” Tweek asked suspiciously. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” Kenny shrugged, and he didn’t seem in the slightest bit offended by the accusation of ulterior motives. “But any friend of Stan’s is a friend of mine.”

Tweek knew it would be _insane_ to get in a car with two strange men he’d known for all of two minutes. But, somehow, he found himself doing just that.

“Where to?” Kenny asked when he got in the back.

Tweek was overcome by the distinct ‘new car’ smell, one which he found strangely comforting. “Crownsfield Avenue,” he said. This did not seem to ring any bells, and so he added, “It’s just off Cam’s Street.”

Butters’ face lit up, “Ah, we know there! Nice place. We’ve been there before, Kenny, do you remember?”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Butters, between the two of us we’ve loitered on every street corner in the city. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Butters wrinkled his face up in a frown. “Um… Oh! Remember that time that lady chased us away with her dog?”

Tweek was surprised by this, but he was even more surprised when Kenny said, “Which time?”

“Well, I don’t remember exactly.” He knocked his fists together. “A few months ago? It was some sort of poodle, I think.”

“Oh! Oh yeah,” Kenny grinned, “I remember now. Boy, she sure was mad at us.”

“No, she was mad at _you_ ,” Butters crossed his arms. “I was just an innocent bystander, caught in the crossfire.”

Kenny snorted, “’Innocent’ my ass,” which earnt him a slap on the arm.

“So,” Tweek said slowly, utterly bewildered by the conversation he’d just witnessed, “Do you know where that is?”

“Sure,” Kenny said, “I do now. But tell me if you see any angry looking poodles.”

Tweek peered out the window as they chugged along the streets, desperate to make up for what he’d missed on the way here. After a while, he felt he ought to say something, and so asked, “How do you know Stan?”

“We fought in the war together,” Kenny said breezily.

Tweek’s eyebrows went up, “You did?”

“Uh-huh.” Kenny glanced in the wing-mirror, “You sound surprised.”

“I just—You don’t seem the fightin’ type.”

“Were any of us?” His expression went suddenly grim. “Did you consider yourself to be one, before you joined?”

“Uh… No. I suppose not.” Tweek shifted uncomfortably, “I’m not sure I’d consider myself to be one now, either.” He didn’t need to ask how he’d known he’d been in the army. His shellshock from his service was written all over his face, in the form of his frequent ticks and twitches.

“I doubt Stan’s mentioned me to you before,” Kenny said lightly, and though he was correct, he gave no indication as to why he assumed so, instead remarking “Ooh, I wonder if we have any other friends in common?”

Tweek thought it was kind of invasive of Kenny to expect him to willingly reveal his connections, but he didn’t seem to mean any harm. Wary as he was, he decided he didn’t have much choice. His list of friends was decidedly short, and Tweek chose not to mention Craig. “Wendy,” he said, “Wendy Testaburger, maybe, if you know Stan.”

“Ah. Her.” Kenny sucked in a breath. “We’ve only met once. Very briefly. Nice girl—Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt,” Kenny said vaguely. “Hmm, another of Stan’s friends… How about Kyle, do you know him?”

“I’m, ah, _aware_ of him.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“Nice guy, probably,” Tweek shot back with a small smile.

Kenny chuckled. “Well, I like Kyle.”

“A little too much, I think,” Butters snorted, “And I doubt he thinks you feel that way.”

“Why not?” Kenny gasped in outrage. “Kyle and I are good chums. Great pals! Kindred spirits, even.”

“I _know_ he would not be happy to hear you say that,” Butters raised an eyebrow. “And you teased him mercilessly.”

“I do the same to you, don’t I?”

“Well, sure, but that’s different.”

“Is it?”

Butters shot him a withering side eye. “You need to quit implying things, Kenny. It’s cruel.” This was clearly an argument they’d had before, and Tweek was not eager to be stuck in the middle of this petty lovers’ quarrel.

Tweek had a sneaking suspicion that was what they were: lovers. He’d spent years learning to read signals and pick up on this sort of subtext. Never had he met another homosexual _couple_ , though. He might have been excited to find if the circumstances weren’t what they were.

Kenny and Butters continued their bickering, and Tweek made no effort to keep up with their conversation. Instead, he slipped back into playing and replaying his conversation with Clyde.

Clyde, who’d killed Thomas.

This recollection was like a punch to the gut, as equally jarring and painful as it was the first time that he’d heard it. His fidgeting increased, as did his anxiety. He had to get out of here. He had to get to Craig’s. He’d be safe there, safe from the horrific fantasies which were at this very moment intruding into his brain that sprouted from this situation.

“Well, here we are!” Kenny announced loudly, jerking Tweek out of the nightmarish imaginings he’d been submerged in. He realised with another bubble of panic that he’d forgotten to track the route they’d taken, _again_. Kenny looked about, “Which place is yours?”

“Here’s fine!” Tweek said quickly. He’d given away enough information to strangers for one night. He opened the door before Kenny could press him further. “Thanks again for the lift.”

“No problem,” Kenny gave him a lopsided smile, before adding, somewhat casually, “Sorry your friend turned out to be a murderer.”

“Well,” Tweek laughed nervously, “What can you do?” He hopped out the car and waved a hasty goodbye, the sound of his short, sharp breaths echoing in his ears. Just gotta make it to Craig’s, he told himself. If I make it there, then I’ll be safe.

He shot down the street like a bullet. Through the gate, up the path, to the door, which he pounded on like his life depended on it.

The door opened so suddenly it was a wonder it wasn’t torn off its hinges. “What’s going on?” Craig asked frantically, “Where you followed? Are you being chased? Does Clyde know you’re here?”

“No, I just—” Tweek paused to take a great gasping breath, “I need to get inside!” He ducked under Craig’s arm and bolted down the hall and into the bedroom. He scurried into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Pulling his knees to his chest, he could feel how they trembled against him. He screwed his eyes up tight and tried to block everything out. He tried desperately not to think about Clyde and Thomas. This, of course, resulted in him only thinking about it more. The images came thick and fast. Relentless. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and he was dying. Dying, oh God, he was—

“Tweek? Are you alright?”

Tweek couldn’t tell if his voice was muffled by the duvet or by the ringing in his ears. “Yeah?” he sniffed. He heard the flip of a light switch as Craig enter the room and felt the mattress dip as he sat down next to him.

“I need you to tell me what happened. Can you come out?” he asked quietly.

“No!” Tweek said quickly, “No—Don’t, I—I can’t!”

“Okay,” Craig said, “That’s alright, you don’t have to.” He kept his voice even and measured. “May I come in, then?”

“Okay,” Tweek whispered. He felt the duvet shift as Craig joined him beneath it but did not open his eyes. He couldn’t open them. If he did, then it would all be real. It couldn’t be real.

“Is this a touch or a no touch kind of situation?” Craig asked.

A few days ago, Craig had surprised him by putting his hand on Tweek’s shoulder when he’d zoned out, and Tweek had screeched, whirled around, and punched him in the face without thought or hesitation. Tweek had been extremely apologetic afterwards of course, and he’d not done any damage, but since then Craig always asked before he touched him. This was a good call.

“No touch.” Tweek shivered at the thought of contact right now and buried his face in his knees, drawing them tighter in on himself, his breaths growing shallower.

“Okay.” There was a short silence, then, “You’re breathing too—”

“I know, I know!” Tweek huffed, “Just give me a second.”

“Alright! I’m not trying to rush you.”

Tweek muttered under his breath that it sure _felt_ like he was. Tweek knew he was being unfair, and that Craig was only trying to help, but he was too preoccupied by feeling like he was going to die to be polite.

“Do you want me to count for you?” Craig asked.

“No!” Tweek snapped. He paused, then mumbled, “Actually, um… Yes.”

And so he did. If anything, it was more the presence of Craig’s voice than the actual rhythm of his counting that helped Tweek slowly surface. When he was at last able to, he opened his eyes. Light seeped through the blanket, enough that Tweek could make out that Craig was looking at him with that serious-and-concerned expression he always adopted when Tweek had a freak out like this.

“Are you alright now?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m… less bad.” Tweek fiddled with a corner of the blanket. “Thanks. And sorry for yelling at you.”

“It’s okay.” Craig frowned, “Can you tell me what happened now?”

Tweek swallowed. How could he even begin to explain? “I can’t—” he began, but his voice hitched, and he stopped. The idea of Craig finding out that his partner, his buddy cop, was responsible for the murder of his friend was horrifying. “I don’t want to say. I don’t know how to say it.”

“Okay, well… Can I take a guess?”

Tweek nodded.

“Did—Was it Clyde?”

“Kind of,” he mumbled.

“Did he do something to you?”

“No, not to me.”

“To someone else?”

“Yeah. Or—I found out that he had.”

Craig was silent for a moment. “And that thing he’d done…” He looked at Tweek, and it was like he’d thrown a fishhook down his throat, because suddenly the truth was yanked out of him.

“Clyde killed Thomas!” Tweek blurted. He clapped his hands over his mouth.

Craig’s serious expression dropped. He blinked in shock.

“I’m sorry!” Tweek moaned, closing his eyes again, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Craig didn’t interject by telling him not to apologise like he usually did. He didn’t say anything at all. Tweek opened one eye and saw that he was staring numbly into space.

Cautiously, Tweek reached out and put his hand on top of Craig’s.

Craig looked at the hand like it was a foreign object, and then back up at Tweek. “Clyde told you that?” he asked. He voice was unnervingly calm and emotionless.

“Uh-huh. He was—He was drunk, and rambling about making mistakes or something, and I asked him what the biggest fuck up ever was, and—and then he told me. About how he’d… You know.” Tweek couldn’t bring himself to say it again. “He didn’t even think he’d done anything wrong.”

“Oh.” He went back to staring into space.

“Are you… okay?”

“No,” he said quietly.

Tweek watched him for a little while longer, but he just kept on gazing vacantly at nothing. It was like he was completely shutting down.

Slowly, Tweek shifted from his position. He crawled across the bed so that he could put an arm around him. Craig did not move, nor did he shift his gaze.

They sat like that, in silence, for some time.

“I think I knew,” Craig said abruptly. “I think I always knew, deep down.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Or, at least, I guessed.” His face was still blank. “That’s probably why I never asked. Because I knew that if I did, I’d get the one answer I didn’t want to hear.”

“Oh.”

Craig reached up and pulled the covers off of them. Without the duvet to dim the light, everything seemed so much harsher, so much colder. “I think I need to be alone,” he said.

“Okay,” Tweek said, “I can go home.”

“No, stay. It’s fine, I’m gonna—I’m gonna go take a bath. I just need some time to think. To clear my head.”

“Okay,” Tweek said again. He felt powerless. If Craig had broken down and cried, he might have figured out how to help. If Craig had become enraged, demanding revenge, he might have figured out how to help. But this, this… vacancy. This total retreatment into his shell. Tweek could do nothing. He felt like he should stop him as Craig stood and walked mechanically out of the room, but he could not find the words.

Tweek sat there for a little while longer, listening to the sound of the bath running. His gaze drifted downwards, and he realised that he was still wearing his coat and boots, which had left muddy marks on the bedsheet. Guiltily he kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his jacket, and began rummaging in Craig’s closet for some fresh linen. With more struggling than he cared to admit, he succeeded in changing the sheets, and deposited the muddy bundle into the laundry basket.

Tweek glanced at his watch. It was only quarter past ten, but his whole body ached with exhaustion. He didn’t want to go to bed, though, not without Craig, so instead he trudged into the kitchen to get a kick of caffeine.

He’d got used to making coffee in Craig’s kitchen, and it did not take him long to do so. As he picked up the steaming mug, Tweek noticed the tremors in his hands were stronger than usual, a remnant of his panic attack. He tried to ignore it, but the shaking was so violent that most of the liquid sloshed over the edge. He stared at the slick, dark pool spreading across the tiled floor in abject horror but did not move until he felt the unpleasant sensation of it beginning to soak into his socks. He jumped, and hastily found a tea towel to mop it up. He hoped it would not stain.

Tweek finished what was left in his cup, which was not a lot, and then made himself another. And then another. When he went to brew a third, he decided to make Craig one, too, but by the time he had finished drinking his own cup, Craig had still not emerged from the bathroom. So he left it on the kitchen counter and went back to the bedroom to change his socks.

He idly put on his green pinstripe pyjamas, too, just for something to do, and flopped onto the bed. He shifted and fidgeted, unable to get comfortable. Eventually, he settled on his back, and he stared at the ceiling, wondering what Craig was thinking.

Had he done the right thing by telling him the truth? Nothing right now felt right. But keeping it from him would have been worse.

This got Tweek thinking about his job for Stan, which he _still_ hadn’t told Craig about. The longer he left it, the harder it got. Not that it mattered now anyway. After this evening, Tweek wasn’t too optimistic in his quest with Clyde. His deluded loyalty to Cartman and the force ran deeper than he’d thought. And besides, he wasn’t sure he could ever look him in the eye again, knowing what he did now.

Tweek sat up. He was sick of thinking about Clyde. And according to his watch, it had been a full forty-two minutes since he’d last talked to Craig. He was starting to get anxious. To be fair, he was always anxious, but at least right now he had a reason to be.

He scurried back into the kitchen, but Craig still wasn’t there. His coffee sat on the counter, untouched. Tweek was not one to let good coffee go to waste, so he drank it for him. It was stone cold and trickled down his throat like liquid tar. He still downed it in one.

Cautiously, Tweek approached the bathroom door. “Craig?”

No reply.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in there an awful long time.”

Still nothing.

Tweek put his hand on the door. To his surprise, it swung open, which meant Craig hadn’t even bothered to close it properly. Craig was lying in the bath, staring at the wall. His face was still blank, eyes still empty. His hair wasn’t even wet. Tweek imagined that he’d been motionless for quite some time.

“Can—Can I come in?” Tweek asked timidly. Craig shrugged indifferently, and so he tiptoed inside and shut the door. “How are you feeling?”

Craig looked at him strangely. “I’m not feeling anything.” The muscles in his bare shoulders tensed. “Nothing.”

“Oh,” Tweek said, and then, “Like…you’re numb?”

“Yeah,” Craig said slowly. “Or—More than that. Like I’m not even here. Like I’m just floating, watching myself from a distance. None of it seems real. Everything’s so far away.”

There was a stool in the corner of the bathroom. Tweek brought it to the side of the bath and perched on it. “Tell me more.”

“I just—I feel like I should feel something, right?” Craig said, eyes flicking over to look at him. “I keep waiting to be sad, or angry, or—I don’t know, to just be _something_ , but I don’t. I don’t feel any of that.” He returned his gaze to the wall. “All I feel is empty.”

Tweek licked his lips nervously. He was not used to being on the other end of this sort of thing. “That’s okay,” he said carefully. He traced his fingers along the surface of the water and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “Disassociating is a natural reaction to trauma.”

“Trauma?” Craig frowned.

Maybe that had been the wrong thing. “Or shock,” he amended quickly. “Or grief, or whatever you want to call it. People—They process things in different ways.” Tweek cupped a handful of water and let it trickle down the top of Craig’s arm.

“Oh.” Craig shivered as another palmful of water ran down his chest. “Keep doing that. Feels good.”

“Okay,” Tweek smiled sheepishly. He shifted his stool so that he was sitting behind him, “Wet your hair. I’ll wash it.”

Craig sank lower into the bath and came back up, hair sleek and dark. Tweek ran his hands through it. It was so smooth. “Pass me the—Yep, that’s it.” Taking care to control his caffeine-jitters, he lathered the soap into Craig’s hair in slow, easy strokes, massaging his scalp with his fingertips. Craig closed his eyes and sank back into his touch.

“I still feel like I should feel more than this,” he murmured after a while. “About—You know. I feel guilty that I don’t.”

“I get that,” Tweek said as he began to rinse out the suds. “But you always tell me not to feel bad about my panic attacks, right?”

“But you can’t control those.”

“You can’t control this reaction either.” He leant down and kissed his cheek. “You spend so much time worrying about whether or not you’re a good person that you forget that you are.” He leant in again, and Craig tilted his head so that he could meet his mouth this time.

“You’re shaking,” Craig pulled away, concerned.

“I, uh, might have drunk quite a bit of coffee whilst you were in here,” Tweek admitted.

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “How much, exactly?”

“Oh, um,” he tugged on his hair and averted his gaze, “Four mugs?” He said it like it was a question.

Craig’s eyebrows went up. “Tweek!”

“I’m fine! It was more like three and half, anyway, cos I spilt most of the first one.”

“And how did that happen?” Craig raised an eyebrow.

Tweek reddened. “Because I was…shaking. Already.”

Craig pinched the bridge of his nose. “Baby, honestly, you’ll give yourself a heart if you keep this up.”

“Hey, I thought we’d established that we all process things in different ways,” Tweek crossed his arms indignantly, “Caffeine is mine.” He cocked his head, “And did you just call me baby?”

Craig reddened, “Did—Did I?”

Tweek grinned. “God, that must be so embarrassing for you.”

“Shut up!” Craig splashed water at him, and Tweek squawked and scrambled out of the way.

“I’m not saying I didn’t like it,” he said. “You can call me that if you want. I don’t mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “I, uh—I actually kind of liked it.”

Craig snorted, “I knew you would.” He reached over to take his face and pull him closer.

“Craig!” Tweek whined, “Your hands are all wet.” But he kissed him anyway. He would be a fool to pass up on the opportunity.

\---

Craig was drawn into semi-consciousness by a warbling, high pitched noise. “S’okay, baby,” he murmured, hugging him tighter to his chest. “Calm down, you’re safe.”

He felt Tweek stir against him. “That’s—That’s not me.”

“Huh?” he said blearily. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s the telephone.”

“Oh.” That explained why the sound was coming from outside the room.

“Do I _normally_ sound like a telephone?” Tweek asked, not without irritation.

“I don’t know. I’m not really awake.”

He huffed, “You _don’t know_ if I sound like a telephone?”

Craig ignored his sulking. “What time even is it?”

“Too late for a phone call, that’s for sure.”

Craig lay there for a moment more, to see if whoever were ringing would give up and let them sleep. But alas, they persisted. “I guess I should go answer it,” he sighed, making no move to do so.

“You should,” Tweek agreed. “You should really go do that.”

“Mm-hm. Any minute now, I’ll stand up.” But he didn’t.

“You actually should, though. The constant ringing is getting on my nerves.”

Craig groaned and hauled himself out of bed. He trudged blindly down the hall, not bothering to turn on the lights. He did not plan on having a lengthy conversation. “What do you want?” he snapped into the receiver.

“Good evening to you, too, Tucker.”

Craig froze. “Chief!” He cleared his throat, “Uh, sorry, I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Clearly,” Cartman said. “Look, I need you down at the station, stat.”

The hall light was flicked on. Tweek was standing in the bedroom doorway, rubbing his eyes. He’d brought the blanket with him, wrapping it round his shoulders like a cloak. “Is everything okay?” he whispered.

Craig put a finger to his lips. “I don’t do nightshift anymore, sir,” he said, glancing at the clock. “It’s two in the morning. My shift’s not for another six hours.”

“I know what your schedule is, Tucker,” Cartman snapped. “But there’s been a change of plans. A crisis of sorts.”

Craig swallowed, but kept his voice monotone. “What sort of crisis?”

Tweek’s eyes went wide when he heard him say that. He opened his mouth, but Craig hastily waved a hand at him and mouthed, _“It’s fine, go back to bed.”_ Tweek reluctantly slunk off.

“The sort of crisis which shouldn’t be discussed over the phone,” the Chief huffed.

“Right. Of course. Will, uh—Will Clyde be there?”

“Oh, no. He’s done quite enough already,” Cartman said darkly. “He’s earnt his night off.”

Craig might have been relieved if it weren’t for how foreboding that seemed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, sir.”

“You’d better be. I’m not sure how much longer she’ll last.” And at that, the line went dead.

Well that certainly didn’t sound good.

When he made his way back to the bedroom, he found Tweek was sitting upright in bed, worrying the edge of the blanket. “Who was that?” he asked nervously.

“Cartman. He wants me down at the station.” He went to his closet and began undressing. “An emergency, apparently.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. It didn’t sound good.”

“Emergencies so rarely are,” Tweek mumbled. He scrambled to his feet, “Maybe you shouldn’t go. It could be dangerous.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Craig said reassuringly. “Just some drunks picking fights or something. You know how South Park gets on a Saturday night.”

“Technically it’s Sunday morning.”

“You know what I meant.” Tweek still looked anxious, and so Craig gave him a reassuring kiss. “I’ll be alright. I’ll come straight back here once I’m done, okay? So keep the bed warm for me. I shan’t be more than an hour, tops.”

“Alright,” Tweek said reluctantly. With trembling fingers, he began buttoning Craig’s shirt up for him. Craig didn’t exactly need the help, but he let him do it anyway.

\---

He arrived at the station to find it completely empty. The place was like a ghost town, without a soul in sight. The holding cells, which normally would have been populated with a large array of antisocial troublemakers, were stark bare. The desks were similarly unattended, which was also strange, because normally one or two of the nightshift crew should be here.

“Anyone here?” he called. “Chief?” He perched tentatively on the edge of his desk but stood up quickly when Cartman appeared.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled, which Craig did not appreciate.

He was too tired to put up with this shit, but he just gritted his teeth and said nothing. Now was not the time to start picking fights. The sooner he could be done with this, the sooner he could be at home again, crawling into bed and drifting back to sleep with his arm around Tweek.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“I sent them all out on patrol,” Cartman replied. “I needed privacy for my interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Who of?”

“Just some journalist,” Cartman’s face soured. “She got wind of our _creative arrests_.”

Craig resented the use of ‘our’ – in his two years on the job, he’d never once slipped a planted coke on a perp, no matter how many times his fellow cops had tried to persuade him to do so. He preferred arresting folk for crimes they’d actually committed. He was just old fashioned like that.

He withheld a sigh. “Couldn’t you just pull a few strings at the Gazette?” he asked. “Or whatever paper she’s from?”

“This isn't something that’s easy to silence,” Cartman scowled. “The last time it happened—Well, it called for a more hands-on approach.”

Craig didn’t much like the sound of that.

“I needed to know how she found out,” the Chief continued. “If anyone else knew.”

“And did she crack?” His face remained cool and blank, despite the sense of dread that slowly descended upon him.

A slow smile spread across Cartman’s face. “In more ways than one.”

Craig _really_ didn’t like the sound of that.

Cartman began walking towards the boxy little room at the back which they used for interrogations.

“So what do you want me here for?” Craig asked as he followed.

“She wouldn’t tell me where she’s hidden her evidence. No matter what I did.”

“And what exactly _did_ you do?”

Cartman stopped short outside the room. The door was firmly shut, but light shone from the crack beneath it. “Take a look for yourself.”

Craig cupped his hands to the glass panel embedded in the door and peered inside. He’d been expecting a mess, but still wasn’t fully prepared for the sight of such a broken woman. He might have gagged if he weren’t in cop-mode.

She was sitting on the floor, with her back against the wall, arms wrapped around her chest. A gash on her forehead was wheeping blood, streaming down her face and matting and mingling with her long, wild dark hair. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and the other was glassy, vacant. She was motionless, and he might have thought she were a propped-up corpse, were it not for the infrequent, shallow shudders of her shoulders.

But Craig _was_ in cop-mode, and so he maintained his neutral expression, his pure indifference. His unwavering ability to do so under any and all circumstances was why he had risen through the ranks so quickly, and why he was particularly good when interrogating. He was cold, he was emotionless, he was efficient. He got things done.

“Well?” The Chief asked. His lips curled in a smirk.

Craig knew he was after praise, looking for a good bootlicking. He would be damned if he were to give him the satisfaction. “I don’t know what you want me to do with her,” he said flatly. “She’s barely conscious.”

Cartman was clearly ticked off by this response. “I want you to get some answers out of her,” he huffed. “Just give her a good shake. A backhand across the face. That oughta wake her up.”

Craig withheld his opinion that that method was probably all it would take to knock her out for good. “I’ll do what I can,” he said instead.

The Chief slapped him on the back, “Good man.”

The phrase was like a punch in the gut. Craig did not need reminding of what he was not.

“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it,” Cartman said. He strode to the exit.

“Where are you going?”

Cartman stopped at the doorway and ran his thumb along the top of his gun holster. “I’ve got a few other pretty faces to deal with.” With that, he was gone.

Craig held his breath as he listened to the echo of the Chief’s heavy footfalls grow quieter, until at last he was certain that he was alone.

Alone with _her_.

He hadn’t even told him her name, Craig realised. Not that it mattered.

The woman jerked up as the door swung open, and then winced, as if the sudden motion had been too much. “Did Cartman get bored with me?” she wheezed, and the defiant glint in her eye caught him by surprise. “Is he gone?”

Craig maintained his stoic façade. “Yes.”

“Shame,” she pouted, “I would have liked to have watched him skulk off. I’m getting bored of staring at these four white walls. They don’t get any more entertaining.”

Craig crossed his arms and leant against one of these apparently unentertaining walls. He eyed her with suspicion, and she met his gaze without wavering.

“So are you two tag teaming then? Are you here to resume beating the shit out of me?”

He studied her a moment longer before he replied. “No.”

“Well, good. Because I’m not telling you where I’ve hidden my evidence.”

“Okay.” He maintained his eye contact, but still she did not look away.

“Do you ever answer in more than one-word sentences?”

“Sometimes.”

More silence, in which neither moved a muscle.

Blood began to bead from her nostril. She did not wipe it away. It trickled slowly over her lips and down her chin and dripped onto her already bloodstained blouse.

Craig made the first move. He took a step towards her, and she flinched, raising her arms over her head, and balling her fists.

“Cool it,” he said sharply.

She did not lower her defences but cracked a grin. “Two whole words! What a thrilling development.”

Craig did not smile back. “I’m going to help you up.”

“Why?”

“Because crawling to hospital on your hands and knees will take a lot more time.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read whether he was serious or not. But, of course, she got nothing from him. “Don’t take me there,” she said after a moment, “Take me to Stan.” Her voice began to rise, “Stan Marsh. I need to see him, before it’s too late—”

“I’m not taking you to your boyfriend’s house,” Craig said firmly.

She looked away. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she muttered. “But I—I fucked up. I need to warn him—”

“What you need is medical attention,” Craig interjected. He went to go help her up again, but she put a hand up, and stuck her nose in the air.

“I can stand by myself.”

Craig looked at her incredulously. “I doubt that.”

“Watch me.” Slowly, shakily, she rose, with her arms wrapped tightly about her ribcage. She was clenching her fists so hard that her knuckles were bleached white, and bighting her lip, no doubt to stop herself from crying out in pain. Trembling, she took a tentative step towards the door, but wobbled, and careered to the right. He’d been expecting this, of course, and propped her back up again, but as he did so the gun in his belt clunked against her side. She bent double and yelped, and dissolved into coughing, which she stifled in her fist. Craig thought he caught sight of a smear of red on her fingers, but she hid her hand behind her back quickly.

She groaned. “Fucking _ow_.”

He secured an arm around her shoulders. “Can you walk like this, or do you need me to carry you?”

“Ha! You’d like that very much, I bet,” she scoffed.

It took a little while, but eventually they made it out of the building – though not without some near misses. The woman seemed to grow heavier with every step, leaning on him more and more for support, until by the end he was practically dragging her across the sidewalk.

He manoeuvred her into the passenger’s seat as delicately as he could. She fell back against the headrest, panting. Her breaths were shallow, and she winced with every inhale.

Craig started the car. He knew the route to the hospital because they drove by it frequently when on patrol. It was fifteen minutes away, but knew he could make it in ten. He just hoped that she would last that long.

He was so focused on this task that it took him a few minutes before he noticed that it had been quite some time since she’d made a snarky comment, or indeed said anything at all. He glanced over and registered with horror that her eyes were no longer open, though blood was continuing to seep from her headwound. He realised, too late, that he should have found something to bandage it with before they left.

“Hey!” he snapped his fingers in front of her bloodstained face, “Lady! Don’t pass out on me.”

She blinked her eyes open. “I have a name, you know,” she said. “It’s Wen—” She was interrupted by a coughing fit. A sliver of light from a streetlamp briefly illuminated her hands, smattered with red. So she _was_ hacking up blood, then. “It’s Wendy Testaburger.”

“Well, don’t pass out on me, _Wendy Testaburger_.”

She rolled her eyes like he was being a total worrywart. She looked down at the blood on her hands, and then wiped it on the edge of her seat. Craig bit back a grumble of distaste and returned his eyes to the road.

Wendy began fidgeting with the latch of the glove compartment in front of her. After a few mindless flicks, it opened, and she began rummaging inside.

“Stop nosing around,” Craig snapped as she pulled out Tweek’s hairbrush.

She peered at the bristles. “Do you have a blonde girlfriend?”

Craig’s eyes went wide. He snatched the brush from her, shoved it back in the drawer and shut it. “That’s none of your business.”

“It could be. I’m very good at making things my business when I want to.” Wendy snickered, pleased she’d managed to break his stoicism and get a rise out of him.

Craig scowled, “Well, don’t.”

She leant back in her seat, and when he glanced over again, he saw her eyelids beginning to droop shut. “Stop that!” he said sharply.

Her eyes fluttered open again. “Everything hurts,” she moaned. “It hurts to move. It hurts to talk. It hurts to breath. I just wanna go to sleep.”

“But if you do that, you ain’t gonna wake up!” Craig was finding it difficult to conceal his panic. This night had been bad enough already without having to witness someone dying right in front of him. In his own car, no less. “Just, uh—Talk to me. Keep yourself awake.”

Wendy opened her mouth, but all that came out was a cough. It was weaker than the last, as was her breathing, which was growing steadily shallower. “I can’t,” she wheezed. “You talk. I’ll listen.”

“Okay,” He tore his eyes away from the sight of her and forced himself to stay cool. “We’re just a few minutes away from the hospital.” He spoke in the low, soothing tone he usually only reserved for Tweek. “When we get there, everything’ll be okay. The doctors and nurses will take good care of you. Fix you up. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, and though her eyes were lidded, they were still open. He carried on talking to her for a few minutes more, gently, slowly, mapping out how everything would be A-Okay soon. “And after all that, they’ll put you on a nice soft bed with smooth white sheets. Then you and I can both go home.”

“I’ll call Stan first,” Wendy jerked upright. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused.

“Who’s this Stan you keep talking about?” he asked.

“He’s…” She blinked rapidly, and she swayed in her seat. “I—I have to call him. I have to warn him…Warn him that…” Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped backwards.

“Shit!” Craig exclaimed. “No, no, no, no, no! We’re so close, Wendy, just hold on!”

Wendy did not move.

He floored it. Hell’s Pass Hospital came into view, and he turned in, parking haphazardly in the drop-off zone without care. He shot from his seat and raced round to the other side of the car, tearing open the door and scooping her up arms. She was like a ragdoll, limp and unresponsive.

Craig burst through the doors and into the bright, white lobby. There were several others sitting in the waiting area, and a few receptionists behind the desk. Everyone turned to oggle at him as he stood, panting, with an unconscious woman in his arms. “Please,” he gasped, “She’s—She’s not moving, and I’m not sure if she’s breathing, and I need—Just help her!”

He knew that in his uniform, no one asked any questions about what had happened. But they also didn’t let him follow as she was taken away to.

“The doctors need space to work, sir, so you can just take a seat,” one of the nurses told him, gesturing to a few uncomfortable-looking chairs lined against the wall. “We’ll update you on her condition as soon as we can.”

“Is she going to be alright?” he breathed.

The nurse gave him a tight smile. “We’ll do what we can.” She disappeared down the hallway.

Craig stood there for a moment, shoulders heaving, heart racing. He walked numbly back to the waiting area and collapsed into a chair. A few of the other folk waiting were shooting him nervous glances, but he didn’t care. He put his head in his hands and tried to block out the rest of the world.

Thomas had died because no one had been brave enough to protect him. Because no one had been decent enough to do their fucking job. And Craig had thought he could fix that. He had thought he could be that brave, decent someone. He’d spent so long trying to do the right thing, but at every corner there had been hurdles, which grew impossibly higher and harder to clear.

And now here he was. Sitting in a hospital lobby, waiting to hear whether the last two hellish years on the force had been for nought. Waiting to hear if Wendy Testaburger would survive or become just another victim to the corruption of the South Park Police Department, and to the lawlessness that was allowed to fester among its ranks.

What might have happened if it hadn’t been Craig called on to deal with her? What if had been Barbrady? Or Stoley? Or _Clyde_? Would they have done the right thing? —Would they have even thought about what the right thing might _be_? Or would they have just sucked it up and done their job?

And what a job it was.

Craig wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t save everyone; He’d been forced to accept that long ago. But, for fuck’s sake, it sure would be a hell of a lot easier to save _someone_ if the threat weren’t the people he worked alongside.

He sat up and let his breath out slowly. The clock on the wall told him it was something past three in the morning – Craig was too exhausted to bother reading the actual time. He had no idea how Tweek found comfort in such a thing.

Fuck. Tweek.

Craig had said he’d only be an hour, but it had been longer than that. And there was no way he’d be able to go home now. He didn’t feel safe, leaving Wendy unprotected. How long would it be before Cartman found out that Craig had disobeyed him? How long would it be until he came to finish what he’d started? Until he came looking for blood?

There was a phonebooth in the opposite corner of the lobby. He dug in his pocket for some change and dialled his own number. Tweek answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, baby.” Craig kept his voice quiet. This was not a conversation he wanted to be overheard.

“Craig! Oh, thank God, I was so worried.”

“Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Things have been kind of… chaotic.”

“I’m just glad you’re still alive,” Tweek sighed. “I thought maybe you weren’t.”

Craig smiled wearily. It felt strangely comforting to know someone had been worried about him. “Listen. I’m—I’m not coming home tonight.”

“What?” Tweek’s momentary relief quickly dissipated. “Why not? What’s happened? Where are you?”

Craig answered only the last question. “Hell’s Pass Hospital.”

Tweek shrieked in alarm. “Oh my God! Are you okay? Did you get shot? Are you dying? Are you—”

“I’m fine!” Craig said hastily. “I’m not here for me. When I arrived at the office—The Chief, he’d beaten a woman to a pulp. He wanted me to—to question her, and then when I was done, I think—I think he expected me to—” He stopped.

“Finish her off,” Tweek filled in for him, in horror.

Craig closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “But I drove her to the hospital instead.” He was careful to control his tone of voice. He couldn’t let Tweek know how shaken he was. It would only freak him out more.

“Is she alright now?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“And are _you_ alright?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

Tweek paused. “Are you with anyone else?”

“No. No one knows I took her here.”

“Well, I’m coming down there. I’ll get a taxi.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

Craig didn’t want to tell him he was afraid Cartman might burst in and put a bullet in his brain, so he just said nothing.

“Was it scary?” Tweek asked after a beat of silence.

“Yeah,” Craig admitted. “I was driving as fast as I could and trying to keep her conscious at the same time. I thought it was working, but then she started rambling about phoning some guy named Stan, and—”

There was an audible gasp from the other end of the line.

“What?” he asked.

“Stan as in Stan Marsh?” Tweek whispered.

“Um—Yeah, I think so. Do you know him?”

He ignored the question. “What was _her_ name? The woman—Craig, I need to know her name!”

“Uh, Wendy. Wendy Testaburger.”

There was a loud clatter. For a moment, the line went quiet, and then rustling as the phone, which had apparently been dropped in shock, was picked back up again.

“Are you okay?” Craig asked. “Do you know her, too?” He hated the idea that Tweek might be somehow wrapped up in all this.

“I’m coming down there,” Tweek said. His voice was trembling, but it was clear this was not something he could be dissuaded of. “Right now.”

“Alright. Just—Be safe.” He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall. His grip tightened around the phone. After a long moment he whispered, “I love you.”

Tweek had already hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Graphic Depiction of Violence; Hospitals.  
> \---  
> So. The attack on the Capitol. That happened. You know I hate to get political (*wink wink*) but...
> 
> The global rise of the alt-right is terrifying. They prey on the ignorant and the isolated, so the best thing you can do to fight it is to reach out to friends, relatives and others who are at risk of indoctrination into fascist hate groups and have serious conversations with them about this. If you don't yet feel confident having political discussions, then there are several content creators I'd recommend, such as Hasanabi, Vaush, ContraPoints and PhilosophyTube. Their videos are engaging and genuinely entertaining, and I've learned a lot over the past year from watching them. My inbox is always open if you have any questions :)
> 
> Aaaanyway, thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

Stan almost felt relieved when, at ten to three in the morning, his telephone rang. He’d been torturing himself with thoughts about Kyle. How it felt to touch him. How it felt to _feel_ him. When they were together, everything was fireworks and flame, but that only made the time they spent apart feel unbearably cold.

So eager was he to take his mind of him that Stan did not stop to consider who would even be calling him at such a time before he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Stan Marsh.” The line was terrible, overpowered by a rush of static. He could just barely make out what was being said, let alone who it was saying it.

“Who is this?”

“Come – _kshhh_ – Stark’s Pond. There’s – _kshhh_ – need to – _kshhh_ – now.”

“You’re breaking up,” he frowned, “Can you—”

The line went dead before he could even finish his sentence.

Stan growled in frustration. He lit a cigarette and paced around his apartment, waiting for them to call back. But by the time he’d finished his smoke, none had come. In that case, he had no choice.

He would be taking a little trip down to Stark’s Pond.

He did not call Kyle to ask him to come too. He figured it was probably a new client, who just wanted to meet somewhere private. That, and judging by how nervous Kyle been at the graveyard yesterday, greeting the edge of the thick, foreboding forest that started the lake in the pitch black in the dead of night would be his idea of hell. Stan didn’t want to put him through that. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of putting himself through that with Kyle, either – he was quite happy to retain circulation in his hand, thank you very much.

\---

Stark’s Pond was beautiful on a winter’s night, especially since it had not yet frozen over. Bright moonlight shone upon the water like a looking glass. Fresh snow drifts lined the edges, glistening and untouched. In the summer, when he was a kid, Stan used love swimming in its deep, warm waters. The idea of doing so now sent a shiver down his spine. As elegant as it was, it seemed almost abyssal. A dip at these temperatures would likely be deadly.

There was a fishing pier that stretched into the water, and as he grew closer, he saw a burly silhouette standing at the end, looking out into the water.

He knew the soft crunch of his shoes on snow would be enough to alert the stranger of his presence, and yet the man did not turn around. Stan drew to a halt at the base of the peer, and after a moment, spoke.

“Nice night.” His words were turned to smoke by the ice-cold air.

“Not for long.” The stranger raised his arm and turned to face him, and all the air left Stan’s lungs at once.

It was Cartman. Cartman, and a silver pistol, aimed right at him.

“Chief. We meet at last.” Stan offered him a nonchalant smile, determined not to let his discomfort be known. It was not the first time he’d found himself at the end of a barrel – and he hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be his last. The trick to keeping your cool was to treat it like a game you already knew you were going to win.

“Your reputation proceeds you, Marsh.” The look Cartman returned him was closer to a sneer than a smile.

For a long moment, neither said anything. They just glowered at each other.

“How long were you staring mysteriously out onto the water, waiting for that dramatic reveal?” Stan asked after a while.

“Long enough.”

“Did you not begin to wonder if I’d come?”

“Not at all. I know you can’t resist a mystery, Marsh.”

Stan tilted his head. “Oh, you know that do you?”

“I know a lot about you.”

“Big fan of my work?”

“No. But I got the wonderful opportunity to interview someone who is.” Cartman smirked, “Or, I should say, _was_.”

Stan stiffened. “And who might that be?”

“Come on, Marsh. You know what they say about revealing your sources.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s much more fun not to.” And then Cartman lowered his gun. “But shooting an unarmed man isn’t much fun at all.”

Stan still didn’t let his guard down. “How do you know I’m unarmed?”

“Because I’ve heard that little rule of yours you do so love to parrot.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

He kept his face blank. “Refresh my memory.”

Cartman titled his head back, so he could look down his nose at him. “You don’t kill.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been known to say that from time to time. I’m surprised you think it’s true.”

“Oh, I’m very confident that it is.” Cartman reached into his jacket. He pulled out another gun, identical.

Stan was careful not to flinch. “Do you have an entire armoury in there?”

“Just these two. That’s all we’ll be needing.”

“ _We_?”

“I’ll explain soon enough,” Cartman said. “But let’s wait for our audience to arrive first, shall we?”

“And who’s the audience?”

Cartman sighed in irritation. “You ask way too many questions.”

Stan shrugged. “What can I say? That’s my job.”

“It’s very annoying.”

“That’s part of the job, too,” Stan grinned. “So, who else is coming?”

For a moment, Cartman didn’t answer, and Stan began to worry whether he’d pushed him too far, but then he said, “Guess.”

“Hmm,” Stan scrutinised him. “I reckon it’s one of your underlings.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Two guns,” he said. “One for you, one for another.”

“Wrong,” Cartman said smugly. But he did not say in what way, and Stan didn’t dare ask again, so for another stretch of time they stood in silence. He didn’t know how long they waited. It might have only been a minute, but it felt like eternity. The wind picked up, and it began to snow. Tiny, speckly flakes whirled about them.

“Ah,” Cartman said as the sound of approaching footsteps arose, “Here he comes.”

The footsteps stopped abruptly, and a tight gasp came from behind him. “Oh my God!”

Stan’s heart dropped. He’d recognise that voice anywhere. It was the last person on Earth that he wanted to see right now. He screwed his eyes shut. “No,” he breathed. “Jesus. Please, God, no.”

“Aren’t you gonna greet your friend, Marsh?” he heard Cartman’s nasally voice.

Slowly, very slowly, he pivoted to face the newcomer.

And there was Kyle. Frozen in place just thirty feet away. His eyes, the size of moons, were fixed not on him, but on Cartman’s pistols, both of which were retrained on Stan again.

Suddenly, this wasn’t a game anymore.

“Why don’t you come a little closer?” Cartman said, a slow smile oozing across his face. “Don’t be shy, _Kahl_.”

‘Kahl’ didn’t move. It didn’t seem like he could. Hell, it didn’t even look like he could _breathe_.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” Cartman gestured with one of his guns to where he wanted him to go: by the water’s edge, just ten feet from Stan. “Move.”

Kyle did, in quick, jerky movements.

“What are you doing here?” Stan gulped. He felt like he was going to be sick. This couldn’t be happening. It _couldn’t_ be.

Kyle opened his mouth, but all that came out was a small, distressed whine. A tear fell freely down his cheek as his hands remained frozen in his pockets.

It broke Stan’s heart to see him like this. “Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Kyle, it’s going to be alright, I promise.”

But it wasn’t. They both knew that.

Cartman looked like he was having the time of his life. “Holy _shit_ ,” he cackled. “I knew she had your suspicions about you two, but I never thought—Christ, you two are totally fags for each other!”

He shot daggers at him. “That makes three fags total, then.”

“Don’t group me with him,” Cartman’s lip curled. “I have _nothing_ in common with that kike.”

That was enough to ignite the visceral rage that was boiling within Stan. “Don’t you fucking call him that!” he screamed. “You piece of shit! Don’t you ever—”

“Don’t!” Kyle whimpered. He was crying harder, violent sobs shaking his shoulders. “Oh, God, Stan, just don’t.”

“Yeah, Marsh.” Cartman’s eyes darkened. “Shut the hell up.”

Stan fell silent. He was shaking too now, but with fury.

“You oughta keep that temper of yours under control, Marsh, or I myself might lose my patience.” Cartman tutted like he was faced with a disobedient child. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we?”

Stan’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth ached. He said nothing.

“But I’m a very forgiving man. All you gotta do is apologise, and we’ll put it all behind us.” Cartman licked his lips. “I’m sure that would be no trouble at all.”

Stan still did not open his mouth. He didn’t trust himself to control what might come bursting out.

“What’s the matter?” Cartman tilted his head. “Having trouble finding the right words? Would it make it easier if I did… this?” He tilted a gun so that it was instead aimed at Kyle, who let out a little moan.

Stan’s stomach lurched. “I’m sorry!” he blurted.

“That’s better.”

Stan knew his own volatile reactions was exactly what Cartman was after. And so, with some difficulty, he quashed his anger and his panic. He took a slow, deep breath, and resumed the calm, cool and collected persona of a man who was confident he was not actually about to die. “So, you gonna tell me who that second gun’s for, then?”

“You.” Cartman grinned when he saw Stan’s eyebrows shoot up. “You know what a duel is, don’t you, Marsh?”

“Sure. I’m a big fan of Westerns.”

“Ah, me too,” Cartman said. “I grew up on ‘em. You know, reading about the noble, gun-slinging sheriff was actually what made me wanna become a cop.”

Stan laughed in his face. “You certainly didn’t live up to that.”

Cartman scowled at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

Stan did, but he retained his smirk.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Cartman said. “We’ll stand back-to-back at the base of the boardwalk. The Jew here will count as we take our paces.” He turned to Kyle, and said condescendingly, “You _can_ count to ten, can’t you?”

Kyle, who’d succeeded in silencing his sobs, but not in fully regaining his ability to speak, nodded meekly.

“Good. On ten, we shoot. Got it?”

Stan eyed him with suspicion. “Can I ask you a question?”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “If I say no, are you gonna ask it anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Go on then.”

“You don’t exactly strike me as a man of honour,” he said slowly, “So why are you doing this?”

Cartman smiled like the Cheshire cat: leering, all teeth. “Because it’s fun.”

“I might win,” Stan said. “That could be less fun.”

“You won’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Need I remind you of your precious little rule? You. Don’t. Kill.”

Stan glared at him. “I think I can make an exception.”

“Could you?” Cartman crooned. “If you had the pistol ready and aimed at my head, could you do it? Could you pull the trigger? Could you put an end to another human being’s life again?”

 _Again_. Stan froze.

“Ah, I’m sure all this arouses a great sense of nostalgia for you. Reminiscent of your sweet, sweet victory in Germany. Tell me, what was it like? How did it feel?” Cartman didn’t wait for a reply. “There were too many to take prisoners, so you were told to pick off the excess, right? And so you lined up all those enemy soldiers. Ordered them to their knees, with their hands behind their heads. You got a real good look at them then. Saw that some of them were _children_. Barely sixteen.”

The colour drained from Stan’s face. How the hell did he know about that? He stared resolutely at the ground and tried to block out what he was saying. It was no use. Cartman’s words cut through him like a knife.

“And then you worked your way along the line, picking them off one by one.” Cartman began to walk slowly towards him. “One after another. Like cans lined up along a wall.”

A ringing was growing in Stan’s ears. He could feel himself sweating, his breaths growing shorter, his vision growing blurry at the edges.

“You heard them beg for your mercy. You felt the force of the bullet leaving the barrel. You watched the life drain out of their eyes and the blood drain out of their bodies.” Cartman was just inches from him now. He lifted his gun and pressed the tip beneath Stan’s jaw, tilting his face upwards, so that he was forced to look him in the eye. “Do you remember that, Marsh?” he purred. “Do you?”

“Stop it!”

Both men’s heads snapped round to stare at Kyle.

“Excuse me?” Cartman snorted.

“I—I said stop it.” Kyle’s voice was trembling almost as much as he was, but he kept going. “Okay, so you get off on these sick little power games. We get it.” He swallowed. “But—But I’m getting cold just standing here. Are we doing this, or what?”

Cartman scowled at him. “Yeah, we’re fucking doing this,” he snarled. “At least, I am.” He stepped back from Stan and offered him the gun that was just moments ago trained beneath his head. “The question is: Are you?”

Stan stared at the pistol. The story Cartman had retold was something only two people knew: Kenny and Wendy. Both of which had sworn to take that secret with them to the grave. He dreaded to think how he had come to hear of it.

“So the, Marsh, will you do it?” Cartman hissed. “Will you pull the trigger again?”

Stan took the pistol. “I guess we’ll find out.” He turned with his back to Cartman and the water and locked his eyes on the horizon. He could feel Kyle’s watching him but couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze, for fear of what he might find.

“Alright then, Jew,” Cartman said. “Start counting.”

Stan heard a slow, shaky intake of breath, and then: “One.”

And so it had begun.

Stan took his first step. The crunch of his foot compacting snow echoed out across the universe.

“Two.”

He did not want to think about whether he could do it, not yet. He’d allow himself a few final moments of faux tranquillity. And so instead, he focused on the sound of Kyle’s voice.

“Three.”

He relished in it. The accent. The intonation. The way he pronounced his vowels. Everything about it, he cherished. Everything about _him_ , he cherished, too. Unable to stop himself, Stan’s eyes flicked over to him. His gaze was fixed firmly on Cartman, giving Stan a perfect view of his profile. It reminded him of that day in the car, on their way to Wendy’s, when he’d had a chance to study his face. To admire the height of his cheekbones. The furrow of his brow. The flair of his lip.

“Four.”

Stan looked away again. God, those lips. He wished he’d had a chance to kiss them before they began. Then it would be okay. If he could have kissed him goodbye, then he’d be alright.

“Five.”

 _Fuck that._ Stan didn’t want to die.

“Six.”

He allowed himself one more fleeting moment to imagine that he would not.

“Seven.”

But he would. It was going to happen. He could be given all the time in the world and it still wouldn’t be enough to prepare him to shoot. He could die a thousand deaths, and still he would not do it. Could not do it.

“Eight.”

He had always known it would end like this. _The bottom of a bottle or the butt of a barrel._ In a way, he was glad it was not the former. This way seemed the nobler way to go.

“Nine.”

He would not face his killer. He would not give him the satisfaction of watching his soul slip away. His last act of defiance.

He always had been a stubborn bastard.

“Ten _._ ”

_BLAM._

Stan fell to his knees. He felt the shock of the cold snow against his trousers and closed his eyes, tiled his head up to the heavens, to greet the celestial majesty that awaited him.

The sound of a small splash was enough to bring him crashing back to earth, and to a strange realisation.

It was not him who had been shot.

He scrambled to his feet and whirled around. There, by the light of the moon, was the man he had thought he would never get a chance to gaze upon again.

Kyle, ginger curls flying about his steely face in the knife sharp wind. His arm raised. A pistol nestled neatly in his hand.

Stan’s jaw fell slack. He looked to Cartman, standing at the far end of the pier.

He was staring, dumbstruck, at the cloud of red that was blossoming across his chest. Swaying on his feet, he stumbled back a step. He looked up at Kyle, eyes wide, and rasped, “ _You_ …” Blood was pooling in his mouth, dripping down his chin, staining his teeth a sickening scarlet. “You bastard!”

And with that, he careered over the edge, and with a sickening splash, was swallowed up by the icy depths below.

Stan held his breath. They both stared at the spot in which he fell, waiting for him to resurface. But he did not.

Kyle dropped his gun and launched from his place to run to Stan, enveloping him in his arms. Stan hugged him back, but his own movements felt stiff, forced. He felt like at any moment Kyle might slip from his grasp and be gone for good.

“I did it,” Kyle whispered into his shoulder, but it sounded like he was talking more to himself. “Fuck. I did it. I did it. I did it.” He stepped back and cupped his hands to Stan’s face. “And you’re—you’re alive.” He kissed him then, long, and hard, as if to prove it.

“Uh, yes,” Stan breathed when they broke, “I guess I am.” But he didn’t feel it. Not really. He rubbed his eyes and tried to process everything that had just happened, then looked to Kyle for an explanation. “Where did—How long have you—And—But I—” He gave up on full sentences. “Just… how?”

Kyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “I knew it was him. When he phoned. The line was shitty, I couldn’t distinguish the voice, but he—he called me _Kahl_.” He shook his head. “He has this special way of even making my own name sound like an insult. Or— _had_ , I suppose.” Without explanation, he took Stan’s hand, and began walking, and so Stan quietly fell into step beside him. “I tried to call you,” Kyle said, “to warn you, but you didn’t pick up. So I figured you’d already left. I took my pistol, just in case, but I didn’t—I didn’t think I’d actually need it. I didn’t think it would come to this.”

“Neither did I,” Stan murmured. They reached the base of the boardwalk, and Kyle put one cautious foot onto the wooden boards, as if testing to see if it would give way. His grip tightened around Stan’s hand, but Stan didn’t complain. He was too numb to feel it anyway.

They reached the end, and together they inspected the water. The rippling waves were clouded by a faint haze of red.

“I think I shot him in the lung,” Kyle said matter-of-factly, turning to him. “That’s why his body didn’t float back up. It got filled with water.”

“Oh.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes, each lost in thought.

“You saved my life,” Stan whispered after a while, in the hopes that saying it out loud might help him get to grips with this. It did not.

Kyle gave him a small, shaky smile. “I guess I did.”

Stan studied at him a moment more, then hesitantly leant in to kiss him, but he put his hand over Stan’s mouth before he could.

“Sorry, I—I think I’m about to be sick.”

“Ah,” Stan’s eyebrows went up, “Right, okay.”

“Oh, yep, definitely gonna throw up now. ‘Scuse me—” He let go of Stan’s hands and dropped to his knees, retching into the water. Stan did not go to comfort him. He just stood and watched, feeling entirely detached.

“Oh, God,” Kyle mumbled, before he lurched forward again.

“Finished?” Stan asked, when at last he sat back.

Panting, Kyle wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and nodded. His eyes were streaming, though that may have just been from the vomiting.

Cautiously, Stan crouched down beside him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life.”

Kyle pulled a face. “Please don’t remind me.”

Stan laughed, and Kyle was laughing with him too, and though Stan’s was hollow, and Kyle’s was hysterical, there was at least some sort of relief to it. They had survived, after all, even if Stan had a hard time registering it.

Kyle looked back at the water. The blood had mostly dissipated now. “I’d hate to be the poor sod who finds him, come Summer,” he said. “Bloated, half-decomposed. An indistinguishable corpse.”

“Well, it’ll certainly be a memorable experience.”

It was snowing harder now. Stan tilted his head up to observe the big, white flakes that twirled gracefully about them. Kyle leant his head on his shoulder, and after some thought, Stan put his arm around him. They sat there together, admiring the snow, and the stars.

“This would almost be romantic if I hadn’t just killed someone,” Kyle remarked after a few minutes had passed.

Stan snorted. He felt Kyle shiver against him, and asked, “Are you cold?”

“Always,” Kyle chuckled, “You know that. But I’m fine. I don’t mind.”

Stan frowned. “Let’s beat it. I don’t want you catching another cold.”

“I said I’m fine!” Kyle huffed.

“That’s what you said last time,” Stan rolled his eyes, “And then you passed out on my chest.”

Kyle’s eyes went wide. “I—I did what?” He blushed, and quickly hid his face in his hands. “Oh my God, seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus, I am so sorry,” he groaned.

“Don’t be,” Stan said. “It was, uh, pretty cute.” Kyle blushed harder, and normally Stan might have found some sort of devilish satisfaction in making him squirm, but not now. Not after everything that had happened. “Well then,” he rose, “Let’s get going.”

“Should we worry about covering our footprints?” Kyle asked as they trudged back down the boardwalk. They were not holding hands this time.

“Nah,” Stan shrugged, “The snow will see to that. Where did you park?”

\---

Kyle was unusually quiet in the car. His temporary calm from their survival seemed to be waring off, and Stan noticed how tense he was growing, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Mm-hm,” Kyle said, though he did not look it. Though there was no one else on the road, he was staring straight ahead with such intensity that you’d think he was dodging cop cars on a highway.

“Are you—Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he snapped, and Stan flinched at his aggression. Kyle was pressing harder on the accelerator, and they were beginning to pick up speed.

“Uh, Kyle?” He studied his face with some concern.

Kyle did not reply. He didn’t even blink, just kept his eyes on the road.

“Kyle,” Stan said slowly, “What are you doing?”

Faster and faster they went, but still he was unrelenting. Flurries of snow were spewed up as the car zigzagged back and forth across the road.

“Kyle!” Stan’s voice hitched. “Jesus Christ!”

Kyle slammed on the breaks so abruptly that they might have gone sailing through the glass if they weren’t wearing seatbelts. Instead, their lurch forward was halted with a sickening jolt. The car skidded on the icy road and came to a stop.

They sat there for a moment without saying anything. Kyle’s chest was heaving, jaw clenched.

“What the fuck was that?” Stan exclaimed.

Kyle whirled to look at him. His eyes were wide and watery. “Cartman is dead,” he panted. “And I—I killed him.” He put a hand over his mouth to muffle a sob that escaped him like he’d been kicked in stomach. “Oh, fuck, I really killed him. Jesus!”

Stan looked at him, pained. He undid both their belts so that he could pull him into a hug. He felt Kyle shaking against him as he cried into his shoulder. The familiarity of this situation struck him like a punch in the gut.

This had happened during the war too many times to count. And now it was happening again. It was seemingly inescapable, and that above all else was the cause of the dull nausea that was settling in his stomach.

While Stan himself had only ever broken down like that twice.

Number one was after his first battle, at eighteen years old. They had won. Whilst everyone else was celebrating, he’d snuck away off to his bunk to hide under his blanket and stifle his sobs into his pillow.

That had been when he first met Kenny. Crying. God, he’d been mortified to be caught crying, but Kenny hadn’t even mentioned it. He’d just started rambling to Stan about some dumb anecdote from back home, one which somehow got him giggling through his tears.

After that, Stan never cried, not even during their bleakest moments. The only time he’d broken his streak had been four years later, the day they won the war. After the German soldiers had surrendered. After he shot them, one after another. _Like cans lined up along a wall._

Kenny had found him then, too. Consoled him. But he hadn’t been able to make him even smile.

“Oh, God, and now I’m making _you_ cry, too.”

Stan blinked and remembered where he was, wiping his tears away quickly. He felt so detached from the present. It was as if he were underwater. Everything was cold, dull, muffled.

Kyle was looking at him guiltily, still crying. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m just being stupid.”

It took Stan a moment to find his voice again. “You’re not,” he said quietly. “I get it.”

“Oh, right,” Kyle said, looking guiltier still. “Of course you do.”

Stan took in a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly. He hoped that by the time he’d emptied his lungs, he would be okay again. He was not and could instead feel himself slipping closer into numbness. One of his ‘depressive episodes,’ Wendy always called them. He ignored the feeling, hoping it would go away. “I’ve got a proposition,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

“How about you let me drive?”

Kyle smiled at him sheepishly. “I think that’s probably a good idea.” And so they switched seats. “I’ve got a proposition of my own,” he said, when they were back on the road – cruising at a much safer speed this time.

“And what’s that?” Stan asked.

“How about I go back to yours?”

Stan raised his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” Kyle said quickly, but he blushed anyway, as he always did. “Just, um, I don’t—I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Okay,” Stan said. “Homewards bound.”

The rest of the car journey was silent, save for the occasional sniffle from Kyle. Stan wished he could think of something that would cheer him up, his own dumb anecdote to take his mind of things, but he drew a blank, too overwhelmed by his own turmoil. During the war, a stoic, reassuring presence had been all he had to offer, and that had usually been enough, but he could not help but feel like it was the wrong thing to do in this situation. But alas, he was no Kenny. And so silent he remained.

\---

The light stung as it seeped into her skin. Everything was too bright, even with her eyes still closed. And every inch of her hurt, but in a distant sort of way, as if she were simply recalling a memory. She was about to slip back into unconsciousness, but then she noticed the subtle but persistent sound of a whispered conversation. No, not a conversation – just one husky voice, murmuring too soft for her to quite make out what he was saying.

Wendy opened her eyes – or, well, _eye_ , for she found the other remained resolutely shut.

It took a second for her vision to focus. She found she was in a white room with white walls, illuminated by stark white lights. A hospital, she realised with a start. How did she get here? And why? She tried to shift her position, and pain shot through her like electricity.

 _Fuck_. Okay, so that was why she was here.

The room was small, with a basin and cabinet. There was an empty chair by her bed, and two more tucked in the corner, which were populated by two men. One was tall, dark haired, dressed in a dark blue uniform. He was the one talking, running his hands gently through the fine blond hair of the other sitting beside him. She could not see this one’s face, for he was nestled up against the first man’s chest.

There was something familiar about the officer. She tried to think where she’d seen him before, but it seemed that a thick fog had replaced where her brain used to be. She closed her eyes and tried to block out how ill she felt, focusing instead on recalling what had happened. It came to her in snippets, brief flashes, and half-formed images. None of it made her feel any less unwell. And then, suddenly it all rushed back to her all at once. Jolted awake by the shock, she tried again to sit up, gasping as she fought against the pain that movement brought. She succeeded in shifting slightly.

The cop looked up, and the two locked eyes. Slowly, very slowly, he removed his arm from around him, all the while maintaining eye contact, as if _daring_ her to comment.

Wendy did not.

The other man raised his head, and she was surprised to find she recognised him.

It was Tweek.

“ _Nngh_ , Craig,” he yawned, “why’d you—Oh.” He noticed her staring at him and shot to his feet. “Wendy! You’re awake!” He dashed across the floor and threw his arms around her.

She cried out as what felt like white hot fire flooded her chest.

“Shit, sorry!” He backed off, ticking, and tugging at his hair, looking sheepish. “I just—I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay.” Her voice did not sound like her own. It was too quiet, too husky, and far, far too weak.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t be,” he mumbled, “I thought for sure you were going to die.”

“You always do.”

“But I don’t usually get so close to being proved right.” He wrang his hands.

There was a table by her bed, and on it sat a pitcher of water and a few glasses. Tweek poured her a cup, hands trembling. He passed it to her, and she took it gratefully. “How are you feeling?” he asked when she’d finished it.

“Like shit.” She lifted a hand to her throbbing head, where she found a bandage around it, and dropped it down to her eye, where another was. “How long was I out for?”

He checked his watch. “It’s quatre to six, so… Two hours and twenty-three minutes. Or there abouts.”

“Oh.” She glanced over at the officer. Craig – as Tweek had called him – was sitting stiffly in the chair, staring straight ahead, trying – and failing – to hide his embarrassment from being caught earlier. His expression reminded her of the look he’d given her when she’d found the hairbrush in his car.

“Oh!” she whispered to herself in satisfaction, “Blond _boyfriend_.”

“What?” Tweek’s head jerked in alarm. He swallowed, “I’m not—I don’t know what you mean by—”

“Tweek.” Even when wrapped in bandages and hooked up to an IV, she still managed to find a withering look to send his way. “Don’t give me that.”

“But…But…” he trailed off under her gaze but continued to shift nervously from foot to foot.

“I’ve known since you were seventeen.”

“You have?” His eyes went wide. “Oh, Jesus, that long?”

“Of course.” She chuckled, though it came out more like a wheeze. “I saw the way you used to look at Stan. Why do you think I never let you two be alone?”

“Oh,” Tweek said quietly, and then, again, “Oh!” He winced and sat down nervously in the chair again. “God, was I that obvious?”

“Only to me,” she said reassuringly.

Craig, who had been quietly observing this exchange, finally broke his silence. “You’ve never mentioned this Stan to me before.”

“Oh, really?” he said, voice tight. The floor seemed to be off a sudden great interest to him, as that was all he would look at. “I thought I had.”

“You definitely haven’t.” Craig frowned at him, and tilted his head, trying to meet his eye. “You _know_ you haven’t.”

Tweek just kept on fidgeting and studying the linoleum.

“I’m not saying you had to, just…” Craig trailed off. “Tweek? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quietly.

“Clearly it’s _not_ nothing,” Craig said, “Or—” He was interrupted by a sudden gasp from Wendy.

“Shit, Stan!” The final piece, one which she had not realised she was still missing, slotted back into place. “Oh, fuck. I need to call him, need to warn him that—”

“I already tried,” Tweek interjected, “Like a million times. He didn’t pick up.” He stood, catching her anxiety like it was contagious – or perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to escape the conversation. “I’ll—I’ll go try again.”

“Tell him to be careful,” she said quickly, “Be on the lookout for Cartman.”

He nodded and scurried out the room. Craig stared at the door, and though his expression was carefully and deliberately blank, Wendy suspected that he wasn’t too happy with the way the conversation had just turned out.

Neither spoke for a few minutes, both lost in thought. Eventually, she said, “I guess I should be thanking you.”

He looked at her blankly.

“For—You know.” She gestured lamely around the room. “If you hadn’t got me here in time, I might not—”

“No!” He said sharply, seeming almost offended. “God, no, Wendy, don’t thank me.”

She craned her head at him. “Why not?”

Craig did not answer straight away, just stared at the floor. His eyes seemed deadened, as if an internal inferno had burned his insides to ash. “I’m not your saviour, Wendy.” His voice was low, yet it filled the whole room. “There was nothing brave about what I did. It was only what _should_ have been done. Just because no one else would have done it doesn’t make me a hero.” He raised his head to look at her. “What Cartman did to you was nothing less than despicable. But you and I both know that isn’t out of character for him. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. Again, and again, and again. And why wouldn’t he? There’s no one stopping him. He’s a kid in a candy store, only it’s—it’s not candy, it’s fucking _people_ , real people who’s lives are on the line. All I did was take the chance to spare one. I’ve not changed anything, not really.” He shook his head darkly, and said again, “I’m no saviour. I’m no hero. I’m just—I’m the clean-up guy. All I did was clean up.”

She shook her head firmly. “But you have. When I publish the evidence—”

“They’ll replace him with some other deranged jackass,” he cut her off. “Cartman wasn’t a one off, Wendy. He was there by _design_. He didn’t invent corruption, he perpetuated it. Do you really think he’s not got another one ready and waiting to inherit his role?”

“Oh.” She swallowed throat painfully dry. “Clyde?”

“That’s my guess. You’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, haven’t you?”

She gave him a wry smile. “I have indeed. He’s in love with my best friend. And I think she was almost in love with him.”

“Lucky her.”

She scoffed. “Luckier me. I’m the one he tattled on to Cartman about.”

Craig might have said something else then, but at that point Tweek burst through the doors.

“I talked to Stan!” he flapped his hands. “He’s not dead! He’s coming down here.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said in relief, feeling a great weight lift from her shoulders. “How was he?”

Tweek chewed the inside of his cheek. “It was hard to tell, but—not good, I think. He sounded pretty shaken up, even before I told him what happened to you.”

“In what way?”

“Uh… You know how he was when he got back from the war?” He scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe. “Like that, kind of.”

Wendy knew exactly what he meant. Distant, closed off. Uncharacteristically quiet. As if part of him wasn’t there. As if it had been left in Germany. Or died there.

“Was anyone else with him?” she asked.

“I think I heard Kyle in the background. He didn’t sound great either.”

While she had her own opinions on Kyle and Stan’s relationship, she was pleased to hear he had at least _someone_ with him. When Stan got like this, it was best he wasn’t alone. He needed someone to tether him to the present, else he’d end up washed back into the past.

\---

Kyle wished Stan would say something. Anything. Just to let him know he was okay. That he was still in there.

They had talked a little when they’d got back to his apartment, but gradually Stan grew more and more reserved, until it got to the point where he wouldn’t even look him at him, just kept his gaze trained anywhere but him. Whenever Kyle did manage to catch his attention – and it was only ever for a split second – he’d glimpse just how empty Stan’s eyes were. Just how hollow. He wore a pained expression which it did not seem he planned on taking off any time soon.

As neither spoke, the tapping of their shoes on the floor filled the silence instead, echoing through the hospital corridors as they trailed behind the nurse that was leading them through the maze. Kyle occupied himself by counting along with the numbers on each room to keep himself from crying again.

Twenty-two. Twenty-four. Twenty-six.

When they reached number twenty-eight, the nurse halted, but for a moment Stan kept marching on, before he noticed they’d arrived, and backtracked.

“Here you go,” she said. “But I’m not sure you’ll be able to stay for too long. She’s had visitors for a while already. She really ought to rest.”

Stan ignored this, just opened the door. He froze when he saw her.

Wendy was sitting up in bed. He dark hair was matted, a dressing wrapped around her head, a bandage over one eye, with a deep purple bruise poking out from beneath. Her skin was a strange, yellowish-grey, and when she turned her head to look at him, she winced, as if even that movement was too much. Her cracked lips parted in a small smile as she saw Stan, and this was enough to send him drifting across the room to her side.

Kyle closed the door behind them but lingered awkwardly by the doorway.

“Hi,” she said.

Kyle watched as Stan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Hi,” he said back, barely a whisper. Kyle noted bitterly that he did not hesitate to meet _her_ gaze.

A look passed between them, the sort which seemed to contain a thousand words and sentiments. And then, to Kyle’s surprise, she held out her hand. Stan took it, and gave it a squeeze, just like he’d done to Kyle in the graveyard.

The memory made Kyle feel strangely sad, as if mourning the loss of something on its deathbed.

Stan took a seat by Wendy’s side, still holding her hand.

Kyle felt eyes on him and turned to see that her other visitors had not yet left. One of which was Stan’s friend Tweek, who was looking at him the way someone might look at a puzzle piece, when trying to figure out which way up it went. The other, he did not know, but he’d recognise that uniform anywhere.

“Uh, Stan?” he said nervously. Stan looked over from Wendy to him, and Kyle jerked his head at the cop.

Stan stood quickly, shoulder’s tense. “What’s he doing here?”

“It’s okay!” Tweek said quickly. “This is Craig. He’s, uh—He’s one of us.”

“I don’t see anyone else here working for the SPPD,” Stan narrowed his eyes at Craig, who showed no reaction to his suspicion other than a curt nod in greeting.

Tweek seemed to puff up a little at the implied accusation. “He’s not like them! You don’t have to worry,” he crossed his arms. “I trust him.” It was only after he registered the other four gawking at him that he realised what he said and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Tweek Tweak did not trust anybody. Ever.

Craig’s expression softened, as did his voice. “You—You trust me?”

“I guess I do,” Tweek lowered his hands. As he did so, his knuckles brushed over Craig’s, who let out his breath. They smiled at each other, like bashful kids, meeting for the first time, and Tweek said again, “I really do. I trust you, Craig.”

The tenderness of the moment the two shared stirred a stab of jealousy in Kyle’s gut. Stan never looked at him that way, with such raw emotion. _But Stan never looks at anyone that way,_ Kyle reminded himself.

Except he did. He’d looked at Wendy that way, just a few moments ago.

Kyle shoved the thought out of his mind because it was nonsensical. Stan _hated_ Wendy; he knew that. It had been made clear enough that day in her office. He was only acting like this now because she’d almost died, and he felt guilty. _Yeah, that was it,_ he reassured himself. Definitely.

Stan sat back down again, but he still looked uneasy. “What happened, exactly?” he asked Wendy. “Tweek was kind of vague on the phone. Well,” he cocked his head, “less vague, more unintelligible half-sentences.”

“Sorry about that,” Tweek said. “I was kind of, uh, overwhelmed.”

Stan didn’t seem to hear him. He was too busy assessing Wendy and the damage done to her, peering at her with concern.

And so Wendy told them about Bebe and Clyde, and how she’d kicked him to the curb after she’d found out the truth.

“You shouldn’t have told him your name,” Stan frowned.

“I know,” she sighed. “But I can’t do this anonymous, undercover stuff like you do. I like to be credited.”

Kyle expected Stan to argue, but he didn’t, just waited for her to continue.

“Anyway, I was driving home from work when I realised that I was being trailed by this cop car. He flashed his lights for me to pull over, and of course I _didn’t_ , but then he managed to pull in front of me, and then I had no choice. Next thing I knew, he—” Her voice broke and she fell into a bought of coughing, which seemed to be causing Stan as much pain as it was Wendy.

As if on cue, the door opened, and Kyle jumped away from it, startled. The nurse poked her head in. “Everything alright?” she asked.

“Fine,” Wendy waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just dandy.”

The nurse gave the four men a judgemental glare, as if they were somehow responsible for Wendy’s condition. “You really ought to be resting,” she said, to which Wendy rolled her eyes.

“I said I’m fine.” And though she was broken and bruised, wrapped in bandages, and hooked up to an IV machine, the conviction with which she said this was enough dismiss the nurse. “Now, where was I?” Wendy frowned.

“You pulled over for the cop car,” Stan said.

“Oh, right. Next thing I knew, Cartman was slapping handcuffs on me and shoving me into the back of his car. Then, we got to the station, and he dumped me in the interrogation room, where—” She reached up and touched the dressing over her eye, and winced at the contact, as if she’d not expected it to still hurt. “Where he _interrogated_ me. If you can call it that.” Fear flashed across her face, and she looked to Stan again, voice tight. “I tried my best. I held out as long as I could. But I—I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said gently, “It’s alright. You’re not at fault here.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I thought I’d be stronger,” she said eventually. “I’d always told myself that if something like that ever happened to me, I’d _never_ crack. Not ever.” She looked away. “I was wrong.”

“Wendy,” Stan said, and he sounded so anguished. It seemed like he wanted to say more, but didn’t, just squeezed her hand again.

Kyle felt another jolt of discomfort and scolded himself for it. Jealousy was an ugly thing.

“And that’s pretty much it,” she sighed. “Craig arrived to take over from Cartman when I still wouldn’t give him everything he wanted, but instead of doing his job, he took me to the hospital.”

Stan looked at him, somewhat surprised, but Craig just shrugged indifferently, and muttered, “It was the decent thing to do,” and so Stan directed his next statement to Tweek instead.

“Well, I guess you did your job well, then.”

The sheer panic that spread across Tweek’s face was unexpected, as was Craig’s confusion.

Stan frowned. “Does he—does he not know?”

Tweek said nothing, but his twitching began to increase.

“Know what?” Craig said slowly. “Tweek?” And then, again, sharper, “ _Tweek_.”

He flinched. “I—I didn’t—I was going to tell you,” he mumbled. “I just hadn’t found the right moment.”

“Tell me what?” Craig said, not without concern, but Tweek just moaned and put his head in his hands.

Stan clearly did not have the patience for this. “He’s an actor. I paid him to infiltrate Cartman’s inner circle of cops,” he said plainly. “Turn them against him, you know.”

Apparently, Craig did not know. He looked to Tweek, “Is that true? Is that what—Is that all this has been?”

Tweek’s head snapped up. “No! God, no, Craig, of course not!”

“So Stan didn’t pay you do that, then?”

“No!” he said, and then, “Well, um. Yes. But not this _specifically_.”

“Seriously?” Craig reeled like he’d been slapped in the face. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he said in disbelief. “That you chose me to manipulate above the others?”

“You don’t understand,” Tweek said frantically, “It’s not—Maybe it started like that, but—”

“So that’s exactly what this was, then.” Craig’s expression grew suddenly cold.

“No!”

“But you just said it. It started like that.”

“But that doesn’t mean it continued like that!”

“Doesn’t it? I don’t know that.”

Kyle felt very much like he was witnessing a conversation that should not have an audience. But, like a car crash, he couldn’t look away. They seemed to have forgotten they were not alone in the room anyway.

“You _do_ know that because I’m telling you so!” Tweek snapped. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m doing a bad job of explaining.”

“You’re not really explaining this at all, actually,” Craig snorted. “And I don’t think you ever intend to. I just—How long were you planning to keep this up? How long were you going to keep lying to me about—”

“I wasn’t lying to you!” Tweek said desperately. “Everything I’ve said, everything we’ve done—”

“Is _meaningless_.” He shook his head. “You get that, right? How do you not get that?”

Tweek’s hands were in fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh, you do _not_ get to tell me that. You’re the last person who gets to say that!”

Tweek let out a little squawk of outrage. “That is _low_!”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s low.” Craig’s face was dark. “What’s low is building the foundation of a relationship on a lie—” he saw Tweek open his mouth to protest but beat him to it. “Or an absence of truth – whatever, same thing – and then keeping that lie to yourself, just so you can finish your job.”

“That wasn’t my job!” Tweek was making no attempt to reign in his anger now. His voice rose, “My job was not to _fucking_ seduce you, Craig!”

“No, not ‘specifically,’” he made quotes with his fingers as he parroted what Tweek had said before. “It was just your preferred method. Your personal flair. You thought: Oh, I bet it would make things interesting if I—”

“That’s not true!” His fidgeting had escalated to the point where he could no longer remain seated, and so he stood with a start. “You—You’re twisting my words to justify the bullshit conclusion you’ve already leapt to!” He stomped his foot. “Why won’t you just believe me when I tell you that’s not fucking true?”

“Well, why should I?” Craig stood too, and his rage seemed to make him ten times taller than he already was.

“Why wouldn’t you? Why would I lie to you about that?”

“I don’t know!” Craig threw his hands in the air. “Why would you lie to me about _any of this_? I didn’t think you would, but apparently—”

“But that was different!” Tweek interjected, furious. “Look, I’m telling you, right now: I _love_ you.” He used his hands to sarcastically mimic writing it out in the air, “ _I love you, Craig Tucker._ ” He scowled up at him. “Is that clear enough for you? Or are you just gonna mince that too?”

Neither spoke for a moment. Both just stood there, panting, glaring at each other.

“You love me,” Craig repeated quietly.

“Yes!” Tweek said desperately, running his hands through his hair. His voice cracked, but he said it again, “I love you.”

Craig looked at him sadly. “I’m just not sure I can trust that anymore.”

“You—You what?” Tweek stumbled backwards like he’d been struck.

There was no anger in Craig’s voice when he spoke, only remorse. “I’m sorry, Tweek, but _this_ – whatever it was – it’s over. I can’t keep going, not after all that.”

Tweek seemed to grow smaller and smaller with every word he spoke. “O-Oh,” he said hoarsely. “Okay.”

Craig glanced at the clock on the wall. “Look, I have to go,” he began to back towards the door. “My shift will be starting soon.”

“Craig,” Tweek breathed, “Please, don’t do this.”

He just shook his head slowly. With one last sorrowful look, he was gone.

Tweek didn’t move. He stared at the door, dumbfounded, as if at any moment Craig might come bursting back through and take him in his arms again.

But he didn’t. The door remained firmly shut.

Tweek looked over at Stan, apparently realising he was there for the first time in a while. “What—What just happened?” he said shakily.

“I…I think you just got dumped,” Stan said, a little shocked himself.

“That’s what I thought,” Tweek said. And then he started to cry. He covered his face with his hands, embarrassed. “God, sorry about this,” he mumbled.

“Oh, Tweek,” Wendy said gently, “come here.” She put out an arm and he went and buried his face in her shoulder, doing his best to stifle his sobs.

Kyle had never felt more uncomfortable in his life – excluding, he supposed, the time he watched Butters and Cartman have sex. He looked to Stan, to exchange a _What the fuck just happened_ look, but he was gazing into space, lost in his own thoughts. By the look on his face, they were not happy ones.

Tweek pulled back, rubbing his eyes. “I think—I think I’m gonna go home now, if that’s alright,” he sniffed.

“Of course,” Wendy said. “How are you getting home?”

“I’ll just walk,” he said. “I don’t have enough money on me for a taxi anyway. I spent it all in the phonebooth trying to call Stan earlier.”

Kyle sighed inwardly. He knew what the right thing to do would be. What the kind thing to do would be. And so he said it. “I’ll drive you.”

Tweek turned his big, doe eyes on him. “R-Really?”

“Yeah,” Kyle offered him a sympathetic half-smile. “It’s no bother.” He glanced at Stan and Wendy and knew what the other right thing to say would be, and though it broke his heart just a little bit to say it, he did. “You two probably need some alone time anyway.”

Stan gave him an appreciative nod before Kyle followed Tweek out into the hallway.

“Is it alright if I go find a washroom before we go?” Tweek said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “I just need a moment to—You know. Process.”

“Sure,” Kyle said, and he watched him morosely slink off.

Kyle looked back at the door they had come from and wondered what it was they were talking about in there. It struck him that he didn’t have to wonder. He could easily press his ear to the door if he wanted to.

 _No,_ he reprimanded himself, _of course I won’t._ _Eavesdropping is wrong._

But he did it anyway.

At first, he thought the door might be too thick for him to make anything out through, but then someone spoke, and he found he could hear them well enough.

“Poor Tweek.” It was Wendy.

Stan grunted in agreement. “Did you know,” he asked, “that he was queer?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“I had a feeling.”

“I hope he’s alright.”

“He’ll be fine. Assuming Kyle doesn’t have another manic driving episode.”

Kyle resented this statement immensely.

“What?” Wendy said in confusion.

“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”

“Stan,” she said seriously, “what happened between you two?”

“What do you mean?” he said, though by the tone of his voice he knew exactly what she meant.

“You were very, uh… buddy-buddy in my office last week. But then just now—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Stan said firmly.

“You ought to be kinder to him,” she ignored his interruption. “He’s pretty smitten with you, you know.”

Kyle’s stomach lurched. So the Kinsey book she’d sent him _had_ had a double meaning, then. Was he really that obvious?

“Don’t pretend to understand what’s going on between us, Wendy,” Stan said, not without irritation. “Not even I know that.”

“Christ, Stan, I’m only trying to help,” she sighed.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do. You have the emotional intelligence of a brick.” Stan huffed in protest and she tutted. “Well, I’m not wrong! Now, will you tell me what happened between you two, or not?”

There was a tense pause. “We had a… run in. With Cartman.”

Kyle heard her suck in a breath. “I thought so. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” he said flatly. “But it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s just—The whole thing made me realise—I never should have let Kyle join the case.”

Kyle’s heart dropped.

“I knew it was too dangerous, right from the start,” Stan continued. “I warned him. ‘You could die,’ I said, and do you know what he did? He just grinned at me. Grinned at me and said ‘Good.’ That’s what he said. And like a fool, I let him come along.” He swore under his breath. “Dammit. I couldn’t say no to him, even then.”

There was a brief silence. Kyle wished he could see what was going on inside right now, to pick apart all the nonverbal clues he was blind to, but he knew that wasn’t an option. And so he waited with bated breath for someone to say something.

“And then I just had this moment. This—This epiphany. In my apartment, after we’d come back. He was just sitting there, just sort of… crying to himself. Quietly. He looked so small, and broken, and alone. And I thought, _I did this._ That was me. If I hadn’t been so weak, I could have protected him. Not just from Cartman, but from all of this. You know, I look back at our case together, and it’s—it’s like a montage of me fucking up and him getting hurt. Over and over again. And even if this thing with Cartman’s been… resolved, I still can’t help but think, it wasn’t the chief that was the common denominator in this situation. It was me.”

“Oh, Stan,” Wendy sighed.

Kyle waited for her to contest this. He waited for her to tell him that he was being an idiot, that Kyle wasn’t some fucking breakable bauble that was better left on the shelf. He didn’t need protecting. He was an adult who could made his own decisions about what risks he wanted to take.

He kept on waiting for Wendy to say all that, but she didn’t. She didn’t say a word.

Stan cleared his throat. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all that. I came here to apologise.” He paused. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “It just sounds so strange, coming from you. Do continue.”

He grumbled, but did, taking a deep breath before delivering his promised line with the gravitas it deserved. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I forgive you.”

“I’m not done.”

“But I forgive you already.”

“Can’t you wait until afterwards?”

“Alright then,” she huffed, “I withhold my forgiveness until further notice.”

“Thanks,” Stan chuckled, but when he next spoke, he was serious again. “I’m sorry for cheating on you. And I’m sorry for how I treated you after the war in general. Fuck, I’m sorry for how I treated you before the war, too. But most of all, I’m sorry it’s taken me until you literally almost died to apologise. It’s just—For me to apologise, I’d have to admit that I’d done something wrong. And in order for me to do that, I’d have to acknowledge that what I done had hurt you—That I was _responsible_ for hurting you. And I couldn’t handle that. I couldn’t handle the idea that I’d done that. So I just… didn’t.”

There was another silence. Wendy broke it. “Thank you. That was very mature of you. Can I reoffer you my forgiveness yet?”

“I don’t want it now that it’s already been used,” he teased. “You might as well keep it.”

“How generous of you,” she said, “but now you’ve had it it’s of no use to me. I can hardly give it to someone else. They’d know. Your scent has rubbed off on it.”

“And what’s that smell like?”

“Broodiness and self-pity.”

There was a cry of outrage, followed by giggling, which did not die down for quite some time, eventually fading into contented silence. Well, Stan and Wendy likely felt content. Kyle could not have felt further from it. He would have sacrificed his first born for even a glimpse at the scene inside.

“That’s not even a smell,” Stan said after a while. “You’re so bad at insults.”

“There are worse things to be bad at. Apologies, for one.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he said affectionately. He sighed. “I love you; you know that?”

Kyle had to bite down on his thumb to stop himself from crying out.

“No, you don’t,” Wendy sighed. “That was the problem.”

“But I do. Maybe not in the right way, but I do. I never stopped loving you.”

Kyle willed himself not to cry. _Not here, not now._

“I love you too, Stan.”

And that was all Kyle got to here, for at that moment Tweek came back from the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” he asked, even though it was fairly obvious what he was doing.

Kyle jumped away from the door and rubbed his eyes furiously.

Tweek carried on looking at him expectantly.

“I… I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Just putting myself in situations where I know I’m gonna get hurt, and then acting surprised when it happens, I suppose.”

Tweek gave him a wry smile. “You should try out avoiding conflict at all costs, to the point that you only end up creating more. I’d highly recommend it, works out splendidly.”

Kyle looked at him. His eyes were red, and his hair was messy, and he was shifting from foot to foot, antsy. And though they had probably exchanged no more than a few sentences in summary of the few conversations they’d had, Kyle felt a strange sort of comfort in his presence.

“Come on then,” Kyle said, “let’s see if we can figure out which way we go to get out of this maze.”

“Follow me,” said Tweek, who set off without waiting for him. “I’m good at retracing my steps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Slurs; Graphic depictions of violence; Vomiting; Hospitals.  
> \---  
> No pain, no gain, baby ಥ‿ಥ
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone back and moved all of the content warnings to the end of the chapters so that spoilers can be avoided if you wish.

Wendy had asked Stan to assist her on her series of articles on the police-drugs scandal, and he had agreed, in an attempt to occupy himself with something other than thinking about Kyle. The job mostly entailed typing as she dictated, arranging interviews and anything which involved excessive mobility, an ability which Wendy currently lacked. He knew that she had asked him specifically not for his skillset, but because she was worried about him. Which was ridiculous because Stan was _fine_. Absolutely fine, as he’d reassured her many times. And no, he didn’t see what him showing up miserable and hung over every morning had to do with anything, actually. So there.

He _hated_ how she saw right through him. It made him want to wrap his arms tightly around himself so she couldn’t keep rooting through his insides. He kept them hidden for a reason.

It had been two weeks of radio silence between he and Kyle. Stan was doing his best to drown the parts of him that still missed him. This was not an easy task. There were bars, streets, and even entire areas of town he had started to avoid, if they’d been there together. But even then, he still felt haunted by him. It seemed he was ingrained in every inch of the city. Kyle was just so intrinsically South Park.

Sometimes Stan saw him in a book in a shop window that he’d seen on Kyle’s shelf. Sometimes it was a car the same colour of his old jalopy. Once, it was the striking colour of the back of a curly head, which Stan had been _so convinced_ it really was him, until he turned, and his eyes were off and his cheeks were off and his mouth was off and everything was wrong, all wrong, and he realised it was not Kyle at all, but just an ordinary man.

But it was more than just physical reminders. Stan often had this sense that Kyle was hovering, just right behind him. He would drift behind him wherever he went, never saying a word, but Stan always had the feeling he was thinking something. Probably judgemental.

Stan would try to ignore it. To ignore him. But every now and then he’d turn, just to check. He’d find no one there. Of course he was alone, he’d known that. And yet in those moments, he found himself overcome by a melancholic sense of disappointment. He would remind himself that there was a reason he didn’t talk to Kyle anymore. A good reason. An important one. It was for the best. But that didn’t shake the feeling that he was being haunted. If he weren’t so stubborn, he might have accepted by now that Kyle’s ghost was inescapable.

And so, when the telephone rang at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, Stan felt equal parts dread and hope about who might be on the other end. Hope, that it might be Kyle. Dread, if it really was him.

He picked up the receiver in finger and thumb, as if it might scald him. “Hello?”

“Ah, hello!”

“Oh.” It was not Kyle. There was no familiarity to the tone at all.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Sorry,” Stan cleared his throat, “I was just—expecting someone else.”

“My apologies.” The voice was crisp but feather light. It had a distinct edge to it he couldn’t quite place. “Is this Stan Marsh?”

“Who’s asking?” he said suspiciously. He was not too fond of mysterious phone calls after how the last one turned out.

“Just… a journalist,” the man responded vaguely. “I believe you’re familiar with my work.”

This was enough dialogue for Stan to pinpoint the accent. Definitely an Englishman. One which was apparently reluctant to say his own name over the phone. Why, that would mean…

“Oh!” Stan said with a start. “Right! Hello.”

Pip chuckled. “Hello again.”

Stan almost said ‘hello’ for the third time but caught himself before he could embarrass himself further. “Well, this is unexpected,” he said instead. “To finally meet the face behind the name. Or, um, voice, rather.” He cringed at his bumbling. He couldn’t help but feel a little starstruck. After all, he was talking to the man who’d risked his life to bring the South Park Police Department to its knees. An investigative hero.

“I hear you’re the one who finally finished my job,” Pip said. “Heidi’s told me all about you. I’m impressed.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stan said, chuffed.

“I was calling to ask if you’d be interested in doing it again?”

Stan’s heart leapt into his throat. He hastily swallowed it back down again, to make room for the words to come out. “I’m listening,” he said in a way that he hoped did not sound too eager.

“The revelation about your police force has caused quite a stir, even outside your city. Newspapers all across the country are itching to get their hands on a story like this. They’d pay a pretty high price if someone could deliver it. I’ve got some contacts in New York who’ve got some very interesting leads. I’m sailing back to America tonight to follow up on them.”

“You’re pretty active for the recently deceased. Aren’t you worried about Cartman catching wind of the dead walking?”

“Oh, no,” Pip said airily. “I’ve been assured that risk has been properly dealt with and disposed of.”

Stan narrowed his eyes. Up until now, he’d thought only he and Kyle knew about Cartman’s death. The papers and the authorities had concluded that he’d fled the city. So how, then, did Pip so knowingly allude to the truth? Stan certainly hadn’t told anyone. Which meant he figured it must have been Kyle. Which also meant he figured Heidi was the one he’d told. But why would _he_ do that?

“Anyway, listen here.” Pip’s voice was a stick shoved in between the cogs turning in Stan’s brain. “I could use a man of experience like yourself to double up with. It’s too dangerous to work alone on this, and you’ve certainly proved your worth.”

Stan was flattered, but there was something about what Pip had said that made him wary. Just ‘double up?’ “Have you talked to Kyle about this?” he asked.

“I have.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said no.”

“Oh.” Stan wasn’t sure what answer he’d been hoping for.

“You know, he asked me what you said, too,” Pip remarked.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you said yes.”

“But I haven’t said that at all!” Stan said indignantly.

“Oh, but you will,” Pip chirped.

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s too good to pass up.”

“But _Kyle_ did.”

“He didn’t want to.”

“Didn’t he?” Stan’s heart began to race, though he did not know why.

“That’s what he said.”

“Was that before or after he asked what I was doing?”

“After.”

Stan couldn’t help but feel secretly a little bit pleased. And then confused. And then concerned. He’d have thought Kyle’s start-to-finish terrible experiences with investigations would be enough to put him off. So why would he be interested in another go? Whatever the reason, Stan felt quite relieved that Kyle had ultimately declined. He never wanted to see him in that sort of danger again.

“If he wanted to go so badly, then why didn’t he?” Stan said.

“Something to do with an important case he’s working on with his father,” Pip said vaguely. “Inheritance, I think. Heidi mentioned it, too.”

“Oh.” This was as equally baffling.

The sensation of someone standing behind him came over him again. It made him feel slightly ill. He didn’t turn around this time. It was only his imagination. Or perhaps his guilty conscience.

“How long would this investigation last?” he asked.

“Could be a month, could be years. We won’t know until we’ve started. There’s a lot to unravel,” Pip said. “So, I suppose you’ll want me to pose the question anyway: Are you in?”

Stan considered it. Moving out of South Park. Maybe for years. Would he do that? _Could_ he do that?

Well, it would certainly be one way to escape Kyle’s ghost.

Stan set his jaw. “I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Pip cheered. “Take the midnight train to New York on Friday. I’ll have the tickets posted to you.”

“Great,” Stan said, but he didn’t feel it. He felt morbid, almost mournful.

Pip hung up, and for a while the dial tone was the only sound accompanying Stan’s thoughts.

At last, he set down the phone. He still had not turned around.

Kyle lingered.

Stan tried to block him out, but the more he thought about doing so, the more he thought about _him_ , and his hair and his face and his lips. It could not be said that Stan missed him, exactly, because it didn’t feel like he’d ever truly left. At least, not yet.

Soon, though.

Stan screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything. For all that I’ve done.” He turned to face the presence.

But of course, no one was there.

\---

Tweek had to walk up and down Crownsfield Avenue several times before he could psych himself up to the task at hand. He could feel his cheeks turning pink from the cold as he paced, and watched his breath puff out before him like smoke curling from a sleeping dragon. Finally, after the third lap, he decided he’d put this off long enough, and drew to a stop.

He glared at the latch on the gate before him as if _it_ were the reason that he was in this mess to begin with, which wasn’t very fair. After a long moment, in which he contemplated the idea of scrapping the whole idea and scurrying home to live the rest of his life holed up in his apartment, he opened the gate and trudged reluctantly up the path. The blue door before him felt like an old friend – or, perhaps, an old nemesis. He took one of his fists, which had already been balled up for quite some time and knocked. Six times, just for old times’ sake.

He heard footsteps padding towards the door and steeled himself for the challenge of facing the man who’d broke his heart.

“Tweek?”

“Hi, Craig.”

A myriad of emotions flashed across Craig’s face, but they all went far too quickly for Tweek to identify any of them. It settled on neutral, but there was still an ounce of suspicion visible behind his ice-cold eyes. “What are you doing here?” It seemed he had not changed out of his uniform since he’d got back from work. But he had undone a few of the buttons, so that a sliver of his chest was visible. It made Tweek want to scream and shout and spit in his face for having the _audacity_ to continue to look so heartachingly hot, despite everything.

He withheld the urge and licked his lips nervously. “I—I came to get my things.”

Craig looked at him blankly. “I already dropped your stuff off last weekend.” Tweek noticed that the dark circles he’d had when he’d last seen him had grown darker.

“Yes, but my, uh, hairbrush.” Tweek bobbed and shifted from foot to foot. “It’s still in your car.” It was a shitty excuse. He _knew_ it was a shitty excuse. He could have easily bought a new hairbrush, perhaps with the money Stan had given him to build himself a tall tower of hopes and dreams, only to have it crumble at the foundation.

But Craig didn’t question it. He just shrugged indifferently, which was somehow worse. “Okay. Let me just grab my car keys.” He disappeared back inside, leaving the front door open enough for Tweek to see into bedroom at the end of the hall, bed unmade. It felt strange, looking at it from such a distance, knowing that he would never get to sleep in it again.

Craig reappeared, keys in hand, and stuffed his feet into his shoes. Tweek trotted towards his car and hovered expectantly at the bonnet. He stared at Craig’s hand as he unlocked the car door and thought about what it had felt like to brush his own knuckles against it.

 _Stop that,_ he scolded himself. He had to stop morbidly reminiscing over stupid little things about their relationship, like some senile senior at a museum, mumbling to himself about the good old days. What was done was done. He was here for closure, not for a trip down memory lane.

“Here,” Craig said when he held out the hairbrush.

Tweek made sure their fingers didn’t touch as he took it. He began absent-mindedly fiddling with the bristles.

Craig didn’t move. He just looked at Tweek expectantly, waiting patiently for him to spit out the real reason he was here. He knew him too well.

“Um,” Tweek said awkwardly, dreading what he was about to say next. “I also came because—to give you an explanation. I owe you that much, at least.”

Craig looked at him for a moment more, and for a second Tweek was afraid he might turn him away, but he only nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You’d better come in.”

Craig’s flat was familiar in the same terrible way that Craig himself was. A beautiful thing, only one which was no longer a source of comfort, but instead one of remorse. Tweek knew most people would not feel this attached to a place – or, indeed, a person – that he’d only known for a month or so. But Tweek was not most people. He did not get attached to things easily, but when he did, it was not something he could just move on from. But he did his best to set that to the side, if only for the evening. He could go back to moping about in his own apartment later.

“Coffee?” Craig offered as Tweek took off his boots, and, after some hesitation, his coat.

He nodded appreciatively.

“Oh, wait,” Craig paused halfway to the kitchen. “How many have you had today already?”

“Only two,” Tweek said truthfully.

Coffee didn’t taste right anymore. Each cup seemed too mild or too bland or too bitter. This development was something that he was not at all happy about. It seemed the world was relishing in kicking his crutches out from under him, one by one. He did still drink it, but more out of necessity than comfort. He’d not known a good night’s sleep since they broke up.

With the coffee brewed, he took a seat at one end of the sofa, Craig at the other. The distance between them was cavernous. It had never felt so vast. He had to stop himself from shouting to ensure his voice would carry. “So, um,” he said aimlessly. He had spent so much time preparing to talk to him that he hadn’t planned what he would actually say.

“Just start from the beginning,” Craig prompted. Not one muscle had moved in his face since he’d first arrived.

“Okay.” Tweek pulled his knees up to his chest before he began. “A little while ago Stan came to my apartment. He was working a new case, wanted me to get the force to rebel against Cartman. Just by planting a seed of doubt in their minds, or something.” He knew trying to gauge a reaction from Craig would be futile. He tried anyway. Nothing. Of course. “He knows I’m old friends with Clyde,” Tweek continued. “Or—I _was_. Until… you know.” Tweek winced. Why, oh why, did he have to reference Thomas? Craig was acting cold enough already. If he kept going at this rate, Tweek would die of hypothermia.

“Have you spoken to Clyde recently?” Craig asked him unexpectedly.

“Uh, no, thankfully. Have you?” He cringed again. Of course he had! They worked together. “Stupid question,” he said quickly. “Sorry.” _Idiot, idiot, idiot._

Craig took a moment before replying. “I’ve… not, really. He’s avoiding me, I think. And doing a pretty good job of it, considering we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Why would he be the one avoiding you?”

“Because he thinks he saw me about to kick the shit out of you. And I think that freaked him out. It’s never usually _his_ friends at the wrong end of the stick.”

“Oh.” Tweek felt strangely guilty, but he wasn’t sure who it was on behalf of.

“Anyway,” Craig said, “I was just wondering. Continue.”

“Right. Well, I took the job. First thing I did was get myself a nice black eye—”

“How?” Craig interjected sharply. “You’ve never actually told me.”

“I got my neighbour to punch me,” Tweek admitted. It seemed so stupid now, to keep it from him all this time. So petty and insignificant. “He hates me, so he hardly needed convincing.”

Craig seemed unsatisfied by this answer. “Why?”

“His apartment is right next to mine. We share a tragically thin bedroom wall. I wake him up by screaming sometimes.” That had been one of the many advantages of sleeping at Craig’s – since his was the only flat occupying the first floor, they didn’t need to worry about night-time noises. Though those had stemmed from a very different cause.

“Why would someone hate you for that?” Craig asked plainly.

“Because it’s annoying,” Tweek shrugged. “Not everyone is as understanding as you.”

“Oh.” For the first time, Tweek thought he caught sight of an emotion. Pity, perhaps?

“Anyway, so after I got that shiner, I conveniently bumped into Clyde, and told him the Chief did it. He invited me for a drink to make up for it, and, uh,” he rubbed his hands together anxiously, “that’s when I met you.” He lost his nerve, and went quiet, so Craig filled in the gap.

“You thought I was scary,” he said. “And hot.”

Tweek blanched. “H-How do you—”

“You told me,” he said. “Remember?” Was Tweek mistaken, or was there a tiny twinkle of amusement in his eye?

Tweek wrinkled his nose. “When did I—Oh.” It came back to him. It had been after their night at the fairground. They’d been having sex at the time. He flushed scarlet and muttered, “I guess I did tell you that.” He took a long gulp of coffee, to hide his embarrassment. It tasted wrong.

Craig was, unsurprisingly, unshaken. “Carry on.”

Tweek cleared his throat. “So, um. Everyone bought the story because it was pretty believable. It was smooth sailing until… Well, you know how I get sometimes. You know what happened next.”

“Your panic attack,” Craig said. He tilted his head, “I always wondered, what triggered it?”

“I don’t remember,” Tweek said. “But I don’t work too well under pressure. It was probably just that.” He sat back against the sofa, crossing his legs. “Anyway, now you’re all caught up.”

“Am I?” Craig asked, and Tweek was unsettled by the sudden accusatory tone.

“I—I mean, mostly,” he said sheepishly. “Look, don’t really think a play-by-play is what you’re after.”

“So what _am_ I after?”

“I think you want to know at what point it stopped being about a job and started being about—um, _not_ that.” He didn’t want to say love. Never again. Not after last time.

Craig nodded.

“It was… incredibly early on, actually.” Tweek was not happy about admitting this. “Around the second time we met at Jimmy’s Ritz. I’d told myself that I was only seeing you again for the job, but then you started telling me about how—how _horrible_ it was to work in the force, how depressing and damaging and traumatising and I—I couldn’t do it anymore. I knew I couldn’t involve you in it in good conscience.”

“ _Involve_ me in it?”

“Maybe that’s the wrong phrase,” he said. “I don’t know how to put it, exactly. It was just—You’d been so closed off up until that point. And the suddenly there you were, baring your soul to me. And I just thought to myself, I can’t use him as some pawn in a political game. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“You could have told me,” Craig said gruffly. “I would have helped you.”

“I know,” Tweek groaned. He took another long draught of his coffee. “I knew that. I’d never had that sort of vulnerability with anyone before. I was worried that if I told you the truth, you might never trust me again, or we wouldn’t be friends anymore, just—I don’t know, colleagues, or something.” He sighed, and raised his head, forcing himself to look Craig in the eye. “I was selfish. I wanted you all to myself.”

“That’s not what would have happened, you know,” Craig said. “I wouldn’t have thought any different of you.”

“I know that now. If I could go back in time and tell you, I would, without hesitation. But I can’t, so all I can do is offer you an apology. I’m sorry, Craig. You deserved better.” He chewed his lip. “Better than me.”

“Tweek.” The softness of Craig’s voice took him by surprise. “That wasn’t why I was upset.”

“It wasn’t?” Tweek tried not to read too much into the fact that Craig had spoken in the past tense.

“Of course not,” he said seriously. “You’re not… lesser. You’re not inadequate. Why would I ever think you were?”

“Oh,” Tweek said, and couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit better. “So why, then?”

Craig took a moment to decide how to respond. “I think I was more upset with myself, really,” he said. “I wanted you to feel safe around me. I didn’t want you to ever feel guilty for who you were. I—” He swallowed. “I just wanted you to trust me.”

“I did,” Tweek said sincerely, and then amended it to, “I do.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t have been afraid to tell me about what you were doing.” Craig looked at him sadly. “That was the worst part. The look on your face when the truth came out. You just looked so terrified. And it broke my heart to think that it was _me_ making you feel that way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “My whole life, people have looked at me like that. With fear in their eyes. And I’m fine with that, for the most part. Hell, I made a career out of it, didn’t I? But I thought it was different with you. I really wanted it to be.”

“But that’s not it,” Tweek shook his head. “I wasn’t afraid of you hurting me, Craig. I was afraid of hurting _you_.”

Craig looked at him for a moment. “Well, then I guess we’re both pretty foolish.”

“I guess we are.” Tweek smiled at him timidly, and to his surprise, Craig returned it. It was small, and cautious, and weary, but it was definitely a smile. Tweek decided to brave expanding the conversation. “How have you been, since everything?” he asked. “You look tired.”

“That’s probably because I am,” Craig said. “Everything’s been pretty hectic since the public found out about you-know-what. There’s been an official investigation launched. We’re being scoured from top to bottom.”

“Is that… good?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Craig shrugged. “They’ll probably bring in a lot more rules and regulations once they’re done. The biggest effect that will have is on the amount of paperwork I gotta do.” He did jazz-hands unenthusiastically. “Hooray for me. Justice has been served.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“No,” he said. “It’s nice to see at least something being done, even if it is through bureaucracy.” He studied Tweek carefully. “You don’t look too well rested yourself.”

“I’ve not been sleeping too well,” he admitted.

“Me neither,” Craig said, then paused. “It’s stupid, but I keep waking up at quatre past four in the morning.”

“Oh yeah? Did I make it look so fun that you thought you’d give it a try?”

Craig smirked. “Not exactly. I guess I just got used to checking on you. I reach over, and find the other half of the bed empty, and I just have this sudden moment of panic, where I think something’s happened to you, but… but then I remember. I remember why you’re not there.”

“Oh,” Tweek said softly. Bravely, he whispered, “I—I miss you too.” He ran his finger around the rim of the mug in his hand. “I keep on fixating on this one moment. And it’s weird, because it’s not even from like, when we were together. It’s from before that.”

“Oh yeah?” Craig asked.

“Yeah. It was just this one time. When I thought, um—” Tweek shifted awkwardly in his position. He’d not been planning on telling him this, but it was too late to back out now. “I thought you might be about to kiss me.” He twitched and tugged at his hair. “You didn’t. Obviously. But it was enough to make me realise that… I wanted that. I wanted you to kiss me, so, so much. It was kind of overwhelming. It threw me off balance.”

“Oh,” Craig said, and he smiled, just the tiniest bit. “When was that?”

“In the car when you parked outside my apartment. The second time you’d driven me back from Jimmy’s Ritz. I was crying.” Tweek set down his cup and adjusted his position at the end of the sofa so that he could sit like he had that night. Hands in his lap, he stared straight ahead, as if looking out a windshield. “I was just about to get out of the car,” he said, “but then—then you looked at me, with this expression that was sort of soft and serious at the same time.” He turned to Craig. “Like you’re doing just now, actually.”

Craig moved to sit beside him in order to mirror Tweek’s car mock-up. He didn’t say a word, just kept looking at him with those eyes. Those blue, blue eyes.

Tweek clenched his hands in his lap. “And then you leant forward,” he said, and his heart skipped a beat, for Craig did as he described.

What little space was still between them seemed to spark and crackle. It was agony, to be so, _so_ close, and yet unable to touch him.

“I remember,” Craig said after a moment’s consideration. “I went to brush a tear away.” And as he said this, he brough his hand to Tweek’s cheek, and ran his thumb gently across it.

Tweek shivered at the unexpected touch. “Only then your hand stayed there,” he whispered. “You lingered, just a little bit longer.”

And so he did. Craig tilted Tweek’s head, as if to get a better view. “I can see,” he murmured pensively, stroking his thumb across Tweek’s cheek again, “why you might have thought that I was about to kiss you.” He leant just a fraction of an inch closer. Their noses were almost touching. “It sort of seems like naturally it would be the next step.”

“Naturally,” Tweek breathed, eyelids fluttering involuntarily. “I mean, when two people are this close. And gazing into each other’s eyes. And—”

And then Craig kissed him, and he shut the hell up.

After a long, glorious moment, they parted. They stared at each other, taken aback at what had just happened.

“So, um,” Tweek cleared his throat. “That’s—That’s what I thought was going to happen.”

Craig blinked at him. “I wanted to,” he said suddenly. “Back then. In that moment. I wanted to kiss you too. But I thought it would freak you out.”

“You wouldn’t have!” Tweek said, almost defensively.

Craig raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Well, okay, maybe it would have. Just a bit. But in a good way.”

“Can you freak someone out in a good way?”

“Sure you can. All emotions I experience are some variety of freaking out.”

Craig laughed. “I have missed you,” he said, “so goddamn much.” He leant in to kiss him again, but Tweek stopped him.

“Careful,” he said mischievously, “You don’t want to freak me out.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

“Gladly,” Craig said, and he kissed him.

The exhilaration of his touch and his pressure and his heat set alight the rosy pink acid within Tweek. It boiled and bubbled with delight. He felt Craig’s tongue flick teasingly into his mouth. He tasted like coffee. But it tasted _right_ this time, rich and sweet and powerful.

Craig’s arms drifted downwards, and Tweek found himself being pulled gently onto his lap, a suggestion he was all too happy to oblige with. There wasn’t really room on the sofa to wrap his legs around Craig’s waist, and so he just folded them up either side of him, feeling slightly precariously balanced but too preoccupied to care.

Tweek’s hand went up to trace along Craig’s jawline. He wondered what it might feel like to run his lips along it, and so he did. Starting at his chin, he planted tiny kisses, one after another, working his way upwards. He felt with pleasure the jaw shift as Craig smiled.

Tweek moved to his ear. Kisses at first, and then a nibble, right at the tip. He caught a whiff of Craig’s shampoo and the smell was overwhelmingly familiar and intoxicating, all at the same time. But his hair also tickled his nose terribly, and he had to pull back quickly, breath beginning to hitch.

Craig frowned at him. “What are you—”

Tweek had forgotten that he was not seated securely, but perched on the edge of Craig’s lap, and so with a muffled “ _Hah-tishu!”_ he lost his balance and toppled backwards, landing on the hardwood floor.

Craig peered down at him, doing his best not to laugh but unable to hide the mirth from his voice. “Are you quite alright?”

Tweek scowled at him from his crumpled position. “I’m glad you find my pain entertaining.”

“Well, one of us ought to,” Craig grinned. “otherwise you’d have just sneezed yourself onto the floor for no reason. And that would be pretty embarrassing.” He offered Tweek a hand, which he begrudgingly took.

“This is why I prefer making out on beds,” he grumbled as he brushed himself off. “It’s a much softer landing.”

Craig raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a passive-aggressive proposition?”

“N-No!” Tweek flushed. He looked away, then mumbled, “Not unless you want it to be.”

Craig chuckled, then reached forward and tilted Tweek’s head up to meet his gaze. “Tweek Tweak,” he said with as much seriousness and grandeur that he could muster, “I would be delighted.”

(***)

Sex with Craig that night felt different than before. Usually, it was hard and intense and almost _frantic_. Like fight or flight, there was a sense that it was a matter of survival, of life or death. Tweek loved this. He lived his life with the vague sensation that any minute might turn out to be his last, and so to turn that fear into an erotic thrill was very rewarding, to say the least.

But tonight was different. It was steady and it was gentle, but that made it all the more tender. There was a feeling of timelessness, of infinity. There was no rush, no panic, no fear, just this. This connection, right here, right now.

And, oh, what a connection. The just could not stop _feeling_ each other, with their hands and their mouths. Craig seemed to take particular pleasure from biting and sucking at Tweek’s neck, perhaps because it elicited little whines and moans from him. Craig fucked him in slow rolls of his hips, and when at last Tweek threw his head back in climax, it was transcendental.

(***)

They caught their breath together, Tweek nestled happily against Craig’s chest. “Well,” he murmured, “That was certainly an unexpected turn of events.”

“Was it?” Craig asked. “It sorted of seemed like naturally it would be the next step.”

“Oh, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” Tweek snorted. Craig laughed, and Tweek could feel his chest bob from where his head lay. He closed his eyes and listened to the pulse of Craig’s heartbeat. “So, um… What does this mean for us?” He knew he shouldn’t ask this. A ‘what are we?’ is never ideally posed directly after sex. Especially given the circumstances.

Craig’s embrace tightened ever so slightly around him. “I would really like this _not_ to be the last time. I don’t want a ‘last time’ with you ever again.”

“Okay,” Tweek said dubiously. “So, like a casual thing, or—”

“Tweek.” Craig shuffled downwards from his position so that they were eye to eye, even though it had grown too dark to see much of anything. “That is very clearly not what I am implying.”

“Is it not?” Tweek asked. Then he clocked it, and his eyes widened. “Oh!” A smile spread across his face, bright enough to illuminate the room. “Okay. Good.”

Craig ruffled his hair affectionately. “Good.”

There was a long, contented pause, and then, “Just to be clear, you’re saying you want to get back together?”

Craig let out something halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Yes, Tweek. I would very much like you to be my boyfriend. _Love to_ , even.”

“Okay. Just making sure,” he yawned.

“I’m sorry, is my declaration of love boring you?”

“No!” he said. “I’m just worn out. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Craig said, and he kissed him on the forehead. “Go to sleep.”

Tweek sighed and snuggled back in again. “Gladly.”

\---

Craig was awoken by a persistent rapping at the door. The room was still pitch black. He felt Tweek sigh against him.

“Talk about deja vu. Do you always have late-night correspondence?”

“Not usually,” Craig grumbled. “This is a recent trend.”

“I’ve got to say, I’m not a fan.”

“Me neither.” He picked up his pillow and put it over his head, in an attempt to block out the noise. It was unsuccessful. The knocking did not cease.

“You should get that,” Tweek said.

“Why is it always me? Why can’t it be you this time?”

“Because this is your house,” he tutted.

Craig opened his mouth to argue but paused. “Alright, you’ve got me there.” But he still didn’t move. “I can’t be bothered. Whoever it is, they can wait until tomorrow.”

And he really did intend on making them do so, but then the visitor shouted through the letterbox, “Craig! I know you’re in there!”

They froze. It was Clyde.

“You really should get that,” Tweek said nervously.

“I know!” Craig huffed. He hauled himself out of bed and fumbled for his dressing gown, wrapping it around himself and making sure the bedroom door was firmly shut when he left.

“Craig!” Clyde jumped back from the door as it was torn open.

“Clyde.” Craig regarded him with a cold stare, backlit by the hall light. “It’s the middle of the night.” Clyde looked at him blankly, so he added, “ _And I was asleep_.”

“Oh! Right. Sorry.”

Craig peered at him. He did not appear drunk, as he had expected. But he had this anxious expression on his face that was not particularly reassuring. “So, how may I be of service?” Craig asked, not bothering to hide the irritation from his voice.

“I’ve got a sort of dilemma,” Clyde said, wringing his hands, “And I know you’re logical and level-headed, so I thought I’d ask you for advice.”

“Advice which could not have been provided at a much more reasonable hour?”

“No.”

Craig leant against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Spit it out, then.” He did not invite Clyde in. Not with Tweek over. That would raise questions which he was not prepared to answer.

“I was offered the position of Chief of Police,” Clyde blurted. “Last week.”

Craig withheld a groan. _Of course he had._

“I have to decide by tomorrow. Only, I don’t know whether to say yes or no.”

Now, that part was unexpected. “And why is that?”

“I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about things lately,” Clyde said. He began to pace up and down the path.

“How tragic,” Craig deadpanned. “Why don’t you lie down? I’m sure they’ll go away.”

Clyde ignored his sarcastic remarks. “Cartman was—he was a flawed guy. I know that already.”

 _A bit of an understatement,_ Craig thought bitterly.

“And I know that we’re better off without him,” Clyde said, and Craig could sense a ‘ _but_ ’ coming, one which he was not in the mood to humour.

“Correct,” Craig said instead.

“But,” Clyde said anyway, “I’ve been thinking about what exactly made Cartman a bad chief.”

“He was an egotistical power-hungry maniac with every bigoted bias in the book,” Craig offered.

“I’m not talking about his character,” Clyde said. “I’m talking about his actions. The things he did. And it’s—It’s weird, because I’m looking at them, and then I’m looking at mine, and I’m thinking, there’s not a whole lot of difference. I mean, there is, but there’s quite a big crossover.” He stopped pacing for a moment, waiting for Craig to offer his input.

Craig was far more interested in watching Clyde figure things out for himself. So he just tilted his head expectantly, waiting for more.

“And at first, I dismissed this, because, you know,” Clyde took up pacing again, “I was working for him, so obviously I was doing the stuff he asked me to.”

Craig thought this was a bit of a leap in logic, but he kept it to himself.

“But then I thought about the other night, with Tweek.”

Craig flinched involuntarily at the sound of that name. Tweek was just about the last person in the world he wanted to be discussing right now.

“Sorry,” Clyde had apparently picked up on his discomfort, “I know you don’t like him. Just hear me out, okay?”

Craig was relieved at Clyde’s misinterpretation. _That was a close one._ He was careful to ensure there was not a trace of emotion on his face when he next spoke. “Fine. Carry on.”

“I told him about—Well, it doesn’t matter, but it was something I’d done. A long time ago. And I didn’t think much of it, but the _look_ on his face when I told him…” Clyde shook his head. “It was awful. He looked at me like I was a monster. It was the exact same way Bebe looked at me, too. And I didn’t get it then, but I think I get it now.”

“And what exactly do you get?” Craig asked slowly.

“I’ve always thought that the end justifies the means. But maybe it doesn’t.” Clyde came to halt. “Maybe it’s not about _why_ I did those things. Maybe it’s just that I did them. But then—Motivation has _got_ to count for something here. I’m not as bad as Cartman, am I? I’m not!” He turned imploringly to Craig. “Am I?”

Craig gazed at him, conflicted. He was torn between what he ought to say and what he wanted to say. He narrowed his eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes,” Clyde said seriously. “That’s why I’m asking you in particular. I know you’ll give it to me straight.”

Craig chose his words carefully. “No, you’re not the same as him. _But_ —” he said, before Clyde could look too relieved, “That’s not to say you’re without fault.”

“But what exactly is that fault?”

He sighed. “Alright. Here’s the main problem with you, Clyde. The problem is that you go into every situation with the presumption that you’re right. That you’re on the right side. You think of yourself as a do-gooder, and then use that identity to assume that all of your actions are ‘good.’ And that means that you take for granted that any form of opposition to you is ‘bad.’ And it’s that—that loyalty, that blind faith to what you’ve decided is ‘good’ which is dangerous. Not just that, it’s _deadly_. It’s what got Thomas killed. It’s what almost got Wendy killed, too. Because they posed a threat to your quest for ‘good.’”

Clyde stared at him, expression halfway between wounded and shocked. “Oh. Um, right.”

Craig just shrugged. “Well, you did ask.”

“Is that… Is that what everyone thinks of me?”

“I don’t know. But it’s what I think. And I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“Right,” Clyde said again. He went quiet, lost in his own thoughts. The lull in conversation lasted for long enough that Craig considered shutting the door, but then a different door opened instead.

The bedroom door.

Tweek was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. The comforter was wrapped around himself, but it did not hide the fact that he was outfitted only in his boxers. Nor did it obscure the collection of purplish love-bites at the base of his neck. His blond locks were messy in a style which one could only describe as _sex hair._

“Are you coming back to bed?” He yawned; eyes still shut. It seemed he had mistaken the prolonged silence he had heard as a sign that Clyde was gone.

But Clyde was very much still here.

He stared at Tweek, open mouthed. “What the fuck?” he whispered.

Tweek blinked his eyes blearily open and was greeted by grim reality. “Shit!” he squeaked, before scrambling back inside the bedroom and slamming the door behind him, as if keeping his appearance brief would somehow remedy the fact that he was there to begin with.

Clyde looked at Craig in horror. “What the fuck?” he said again. “What the _actual_ fuck?”

“It’s—It’s not what it looks like!” Craig said, even though it was _exactly_ what it looked like.

Clyde began backing away. “That is _messed up_ , man.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “You—You two—You and him—” He jumped as he reached the gate, back pressed against it.

“Listen, I can explain!” Craig began, but Clyde was already fumbling with the latch and wrenching the gate open.

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Clyde said in revulsion. He stopped and turned back to him. “I just—With _Tweek_? Really?”

Craig might have been offended by this insinuation, if he wasn’t so panicked. “Clyde, you don’t understand—”

“No, you’re right.” Clyde looked at him in disgust. “I don’t. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around this.”

“ _Clyde_!”

“I have to go,” Clyde turned his back on him. “I have a lot of thinking to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Sex scene – brief and easily skippable if you so desire. Like before, the beginning and end are marked by (***).  
> \---  
> Gosh, only a chapter and then epilogue to go! It feels like only yesterday I started writing this thing. Thanks for sticking with me! :)
> 
> This chapter was somehow a nightmare and a pleasure to write because I wrote a lot of it out of order and ended up scrapping an entire scene when I realised it was incredibly stale and needed to be exchanged for a different one. RIP 1,000-word Kyle POV (。_。) Gone, but not forgotten. But getting to write a self-indulgent Creek scene made up for the hassles so I’m not too salty.  
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mentioned – “Jingle Jangle Jingle” by Kay Kyser – https://youtu.be/Lq7wO1qtQuM

“I think we should move to France,” Tweek blurted out over breakfast.

“France?” Craig looked at him blankly. “Why France?”

“Because it’s—it’s legal there,” Tweek stuttered. “Sodomy.”

“Do you speak French?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.” Craig tilted his head, “You know, I’m sensing a flaw in your plan.”

“But we could learn!” Tweek protested.

“Baby,” Craig sighed, “We’re not moving to France just because Clyde thinks he found out about us.”

“But he _did_ find out about us.”

“He’s got no proof,” Craig shrugged. “And it’s a pretty serious accusation to make without any.”

Tweek shifted his weight in his chair. “That doesn’t mean he won’t do it.”

“Tweek, look at me,” Craig said. He gave him his stoniest expression. “Do I look like a homosexual to you?”

Tweek looked him up and down. “Yes.”

“Oh, you _would_ say that,” Craig crossed his arms. “You’re biased.”

“It was an impartial consideration!”

“It was not,” Craig said. “Friends of Dorothy recognise friends of Dorothy.”

Tweek swilled his cereal around his bowl. “I don’t think that was what tipped Clyde off.”

“No, but my point is,” Craig said, “it’s not about Clyde. It’s about the superiors who will laugh in his face when he tells them, because Craig Tucker is the last person on Earth that they’d peg as a _you-know-what_.”

“But he might _be_ your superior soon enough,” Tweek said. “And what if he tries to blackmail you over it?”

“Let him try.”

“He might. You did kind of tear him a new one last night.” Tweek said, tapping his spoon on the side of his bowl.

“No, I just told him the truth. Which he asked me to do.”

“Yeah, the cold hard truth. Clyde’s not used to that!” His voice began to rise. “He likes to look at things through his little rose-tinted glasses and admire his little rose-tinted reflection in his little rose-tinted mirror.” The tapping picked up pace. “And then suddenly you show him his _real_ reflection and to him it’s like looking at himself in one of those funhouse mirrors at the fairground in comparison to the reflection that he normally sees, and I don’t think he’d be so happy about that, and it might make him angry, and it might make him resentful, and it might make him want revenge, and—and God dammit Craig!” He threw down his spoon, sending droplets of milk splashing onto the table, which he mopped up with his sleeve. “Why aren’t you freaking out as much as I am?”

“Because freaking out won’t help anything,” Craig responded calmly.

“I hardly see how that’s relevant,” Tweek sniffed.

Craig put his hand out across the table as an offer of comfort, and Tweek took it. Craig squeezed his hand. Tweek squeezed back.

“It’ll be okay,” Craig said. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tweek said sadly.

“Well, too bad,” Craig smiled at him, “because I just did.”

Tweek huffed as if this was absurd, but Craig caught a small smile on his face anyway.

“Can I kiss you now?” Craig asked.

“Fine,” Tweek grumbled, trying, and failing, to stay upset, “if you insist.”

They kissed, and it was wonderful, to be able to kiss again after their time apart. Craig had to pull back before they could get roped into anything that might take longer than they had. “I need to get going,” he said. “My shift is starting soon.”

“Don’t go,” Tweek whined.

“I have to,” Craig said, standing up.

Tweek followed him to the door. “I wish you didn’t have to work Sundays.”

“Me too.”

Tweek straightened Craig’s jacket. “Don’t forget that France is still on the table,” he said.

Craig laughed and kissed him on the forehead. “France was _never_ on the table.”

\---

Craig had been sitting in his motionless car for seven minutes now. He knew he needed to get out, to face the music, but the confidence he’d possessed at breakfast had only really stuck because he knew it would calm Tweek down. In reality, he was not as certain he’d get off scot-free as he’d made it out to be. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He would just have to keep his head down and hope that by some miracle his presence would go unnoticed.

The step from the car onto the sidewalk felt like the hardest he’d ever taken in his life. The step into the station wasn’t particularly easy either, though at least there wasn’t a sea of reporters milling about outside today.

“Tucker!”

His plans to stick to the background were immediately ruined.

The folk in the station parted like the Red Sea as Red McArthur strode across the floor to him. This was no surprise, for she commanded respect wherever she went. She was tall and fat and devastatingly beautiful. Even a cursory glance in their direction struck fear into the hearts of the other officers. If looks could kill, she’d have a river of blood on her hands.

Craig rather liked her, for the same reasons that she was the last person he wanted to face today. She saw through everyone.

“Just the man I’m after.” McArthur nodded curtly at him. “Step into my office, Tucker.”

Craig felt the burning gaze of a million eyes on him as he trailed behind her. He felt like a kid being sent to the principal’s office, slinking past his classmates and their judgemental glares. Clyde was not among them, however, and Craig couldn’t decide if this was reassuring or a very bad sign.

McArthur’s office was Cartman’s old one. She had claimed it after her and her team had been sent down a few weeks ago from the Colorado State Police Department for the investigation on the SPPD. Craig had watched from the side-lines as officer after officer was called in for evaluation and sent out with their tails between their legs. He’d had his fairly early on, and had thought he’d done well, but it was always hard to tell with McArthur.

The door shut behind them with a _click_.

“Take a seat,” she said. “I’ll be with you in just a second.”

Craig did, sitting stiff as a board, staring straight ahead whilst she flicked through files and pulled out leaves of paper. She tapped the pile on her desk to straighten them out. The sharp noise almost made Craig flinch. Almost. McArthur gazed at him expectantly, as if it had been him who had requested the meeting.

“Uh, you wanted to see me, ma’am?” he asked.

“I got a very interesting letter on my desk this morning,” she said, ignoring his question. “I found it when I arrived. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it, would you?”

Craig gulped involuntarily. “No, ma’am.”

McArthur smoothed her already perfectly smooth auburn hair. “Well, then I’m sure you’ll be very interested to hear what it says.”

This felt like a trick question, one in which no answer would be truly satisfactory. He gave a slight nod, for this seemed the least damning response.

She plucked an envelope from her desk and slid the letter out from inside. “I shan’t read it all to you,” she said. “It’s rather long winded.” She gave him a smile which Craig might have described as cold if that weren’t such an obsolete statement. Everything she did was cold. “You know how Donovan gets.”

“I’m… aware.” Craig’s stomach was slowly sinking towards his shoes. It was strange, hearing Clyde being referred to by his last name. No one in South Park ever really did that. He was just plain old Clyde.

“Well, then I’ll cut to the chase.” McArthur tucked the note back into the envelope. “It’s a letter of resignation.”

Craig’s composure cracked. He patched it up hastily, but her eyes flashed as she caught his faulter.

“That come as a surprise to you, does it?” she asked. “Had he not mentioned his plans to you before?”

“N-No, ma’am.” Craig cleared his throat. “I had no idea.”

She studied him just a moment longer, before finally sliding into her seat. “Good. That’s good.”

“It is?”

“I had to be sure there was no foul play. You understand.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

McArthur raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Tucker, you’re our next candidate for position of Chief of Police.”

Craig’s breath caught in his throat. “I am?”

“Yes. I’ve learnt a lot about you during my investigation, and I like what I see. Your experience. Your ideals. Your ambition.” She leant forward. “But you’re young, Tucker. A foetus.”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Exactly. Folk higher up don’t like that. Fresh faces scare them,” she said. “Here’s something they won’t teach you in school, Tucker. South Park isn’t the first police department to be found riddled with corruption. Hell, it isn’t even the first to be caught planting evidence. There’s a rot here, and it’ll continue to eat away at America if the old ways are allowed to prevail. We need young, ambitious ideologs change things up around here. People like you.”

“Me, specifically?”

“Well, it was going to be Donovan,” McArthur said, “but he turned down the offer. And he stated quite clearly in his letter that he thought you would be a better fit for the position, anyway.”

“He did?” Craig could barely keep the shock from his voice.

“It was quite a glowing recommendation,” she said. “But one which I couldn’t agree with more.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank you.” His mind was reeling.

“Is that a yes, then?” she asked. “I know you may need time to consider, but a swift answer would be appreciated. Someone’s being sent down on Monday to train our candidate for the position. We had assumed Clyde would be available, but clearly that won’t be happening.”

Craig just stared at her, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. “I’m sorry, this is just—It’s a lot to process.”

“I’m sure it is.” She rose from her seat. “Well, take the rest of the day off. Think it over.”

The walk out of her office felt like a dream. Craig went and sat in his car and stared out the window, gaze unfocused.

He thought about Cartman, and how catastrophic he’d been as Chief. Was that who he would become if he took this opportunity? Working in the force had changed him so much already. Would this new power be enough to push him over the edge? He thought about Wendy, and the sight of her crumpled up in the interrogation room, a bruised and bloody pulp. Would that become his legacy, too? Would there come a day when he wouldn’t bat an eye at disposing of those who got in the way of his quest for his own twisted idea of justice? He’d witnessed the ruining of so many lives during his service here. Could he be responsible for figure heading a battle for true retribution?

And then he thought about Thomas, and he knew his answer.

“Yes.”

McArthur looked up from the stack of paperwork she was working on. “Excuse me?”

Craig was panting, a little out of breath, but his eyes were alight with something that was not quite joy nor fury. Determination. “Yes, I’ll do it. I’m ready.”

“Well, that certainly was swift, I’ll give you that.” McArthur gave him a once-over. “And you’re sure?”

He set his jaw. “I’ve never been surer about anything in my life.”

She smiled, and it was the first one he’d ever seen of hers that wasn’t icy, but almost maternal. “Good.”

Craig found he was smiling too, despite himself, and filled with a sudden boost of confidence, asked, “Do I still get the day off?”

She pursed her lips. “Oh, go on then,” she said, waving a hand in dismission. “Run along.”

Craig was careful not to bolt for the car until he was out of her line of sight. He couldn’t wait to tell Tweek.

When he got home, he found the kitchen and living room empty. “Baby?” he called.

“Oh! You’re back early.” Tweek emerged from the bedroom door, shutting it behind himself, and pressing his back to it almost territorially. He was twitching more than usual. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Are _you_ okay?” Craig asked, kicking off his boots and making his way down the hall.

“Oh, you know,” Tweek said vaguely. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You’re smiling.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m being promoted to Chief of Police.”

Tweek gawked at him. “No!”

“Yes!”

“But—Clyde?”

“He’s resigning.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Craig rubbed the back of his neck. “He wasn’t there. But he—Tweek, he recommended me? He told McArthur that I was a good fit for the role?”

“I guess miracles really do exist,” Tweek said. “But, um—Wow.” He flexed his hands. “This is just—wow.” He stepped towards Craig and pulled him down into a deep kiss, pressing his body against Craig’s until he was hoisted up and pressed against the door, wrapping his legs around Craig’s waist. Craig felt Tweek sigh into him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tweek said, “Don’t stop.”

After a little while, Craig set him down. “Shall we—um, relocate?” He grinned at him, “I know you prefer making out on beds.”

The stupor that Tweek had been under was replaced by a look of alarm. “Ah, let’s not go in there right now,” he said.

Craig frowned at him. “Why?”

“No reason!” he said tightly.

“Tweek.”

He wrang his hands. “Promise you won’t get mad?”

“I won’t.”

“You have to promise.”

“What’s in there?” Craig was starting to get worried.

“Just promise!”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

Tweek took a deep breath. “I kind of… started packing some things.”

“What?” Craig flung open the door. Sure enough, there was a suitcase laid out on the bed, Craig’s clothes and toiletries neatly folded inside, Tweek’s hairbrush tucked in along with it. “What the hell?”

“Oh, God, you’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Tweek moaned, tugging on his hair. “I’m sorry! I’m such an idiot. Please don’t be upset.”

“No, hey, I’m not angry,” Craig said gently, touching Tweek’s arm to get him to release his grip. “And you’re not an idiot. I’m just—Why would you do this?” He sat down on the bed, but Tweek remained standing, pacing back and forth across the room.

“After you left, I started spiralling, and panicking, and I got fixated on this idea that we’d have to go on the run from the law or something, and I thought… I don’t know.” He hung his head. “I thought it might be helpful if I did this. I just felt like I had to do _something_.”

“So that we could elope to France quicker?”

“Well—Not there specifically!” he said. He looked cautiously up at Craig. “Now are you upset?”

“No, of course not. Here, can I?” Craig stretched out his arms, and Tweek allowed himself to be pulled onto Craig’s lap, burying his face in Craig’s neck. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to help you calm down,” Craig said softly. “You must have been really scared.”

“I was,” Tweek mumbled into him. “But, you know, it’s dangerous. Even just _existing_ when you’re someone like us is dangerous.”

“I know,” Craig said, “I know. But you’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Tweek hugged him harder. “Well, I know that _now_.” He looked back at the suitcase. “I’ll help you put all your clothes away again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Craig said. “You’ve folded them neater than I ever have.”

“Oh, also,” Tweek said, “This is kind of an awkward segue, but I need to bring some of my own clothes and stuff back here again. I’m still wearing the same things from yesterday.” He gestured to himself.

Craig bit his lip and hesitated before replying. “You could just… bring it all. Bring everything.”

Tweek glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, um,” he swallowed, uncharacteristically nervous. “You could move in with me. If you wanted to.” He felt Tweek draw in a breath against him. “Not that you have to!” he said quickly. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, I just—”

“Yes please,” Tweek said. He smiled. “I would like that a lot.”

“Okay,” Craig said. He kissed him, timidly, as if everything between them was new again, and they were still testing the waters. “I mean, it’s no France, but I think we could make do.”

“Oh, shut up!” Tweek snorted.

“Sorry.”

“But wouldn’t it cause problems? I mean, the neighbours, what might they say?”

“Tweek,” Craig said seriously, “you’re well aware that we are simply two young, eligible bachelors who happen to share an apartment.”

“Oh, right,” Tweek giggled. “That must have slipped my mind.”

\---

Kyle had always intended on coming back here one day. Friday night seemed as good as any.

The creak of the door into Skeeter’s was drowned out by the music and chatter within. Kyle lingered by the doorway, brave enough to cross the thresh hold but not to venture further than that. He looked around, wondering if he’d recognise any of the faces, but he was hardly familiar with the South Park homosexual scene. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was looking to meet new people. He had come here in the slim, distant hope that he might ‘bump into’ Stan before he left for his train. A hope which had now been thoroughly dashed. There was no Stan, and Kyle was alone in a bar full of strangers. Suddenly confronted by how out of his depth he was, he was about to slip out again, but then he caught sight of a man in a bright orange parka, leant casually against the jukebox in the corner.

Kyle might have felt relieved to have recognised someone if he wasn’t too busy feeling immediate displeasure at the prospect of another conversation with Kenny.

The man in question was accompanied by Butters, who was frowning at the jukebox, treating the task of selecting a song with the serious consideration it deserved. Kenny leant over and jabbed a button before Butters could knock his hand away. _Jingle Jangle Jingle_ came on.

Kyle couldn’t help but role his eyes. He was not in the mood.

Kenny chose that moment to glance in his direction, as if he possessed some sixth sense for telling exactly when someone he could bug was in the area. He caught sight of Kyle standing awkwardly by the door, gripping his satchel just a little too tightly. A wicked grin came to life on Kenny’s face, and he beckoned Kyle over.

Kyle feigned confusion, and pointed at himself as if to say, _Who, me?_

Kenny’s smile grew wider as he nodded. He nudged Butters and directed his gaze to the newcomer. Butters waved with enough vigour to attract the attention of a few other patrons, and Kyle shrank under the sea of eyes. He dragged himself across the floor to greet them before they could cause any more of a scene.

“Well, howdy, stranger.” Kenny mimed tipping a non-existent cowboy hat. “What brings you round these parts?”

“I was… looking for someone,” Kyle said hesitantly. “But he’s not here. So I’d best be going.” He began to back towards the door, in the hopes that he might avoid getting roped into conversation.

“Aw, don’t,” Butters said. “Stick around! Have a drink with us.”

Kyle looked about nervously. “I’m not sure—”

“Stan might turn up,” Kenny interjected smoothly. “He was here a few nights ago, wasn’t he, Butters?”

“Well, sure he was!”

Kyle snapped back to their side. “Maybe just one drink.”

“Atta boy!” Kenny slapped him on the back, which made him cough. Butters shot Kenny a look which Kyle interpreted with trepidation as ‘ _play nice_ ,’ but Kenny only shrugged at him innocently, as if he hadn’t the foggiest idea what Butters might be inferring.

They sat down at a table near the back, and Kenny nominated Butters to go fetch the drinks, leaving Kyle all to himself.

“So,” Kenny said, and somehow that was enough to set Kyle on edge. He would never get used to the way Kenny _oozed_ confidence. It couldn’t be healthy.

“So, what?”

Kenny waggled his eyebrows, and sang, “How are _things_?”

“What things?”

“All things.”

“Things are… fine,” Kyle said guardedly. He couldn’t think of an answer which didn’t feel incriminating.

“That’s funny,” Kenny tilted his head. “Stan said something different.”

“Stan wouldn’t know,” Kyle said tightly. “We’ve not talked in a while.”

“That’s what makes me think things _aren’t_ fine,” Kenny said. “If you’re not talking.”

“The case is over,” Kyle said in a way he hoped sounded nonchalant and not completely and utterly devastated. “Why would we still talk?”

“Well, he still talks about you. A lot.”

“He does?” Kyle said too quickly, and probably too loudly. He cleared his throat. “I—I mean, um—”

“Oh, does he ever.” Kenny was having far too much fun already. “Or—I wasn’t sure, but now I know for certain it was you.”

Kyle stiffened. “And why’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Cause of the way you’re blushing.”

Kyle’s hand flew to his cheek, as if his touch could dispel the heat rising. He ducked his head, embarrassed, which only made him flush deeper. “It’s just from the cold,” he muttered, but Kenny wasn’t buying it.

He was looking at Kyle like he’d just told him that Kenny had won the lottery, eyes sparkling. “Don’t you want to know what he said?” he asked.

“Why would I care?” Kyle snapped.

“I don’t know,” Kenny crooned, “Why might you? It’s a real mystery.”

In all honestly, Kyle really _didn’t_ know why he still cared as much as he did – which is to say, a hell of a lot. Whatever it was that had happened between him and Stan was over. Dead and gone. Buried for good. “I don’t want to hear it,” Kyle said firmly, as if to remind to himself that he really shouldn’t.

“Are you sure? You know what they say.” Kenny leant forward and lowered his voice. “Sober words are thoughts drunken.”

“Ah, look,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, “Butters is back. Hooray.” He was knocking back his drink before Butters even had a chance to set it down.

“What did I miss?” Butters asked Kenny in an almost accusatory tone.

“Not much,” Kenny said, taking a much less frantic swig of his own whiskey. “I was just mentioning in passing that you and I happen to talk to Stan recently.”

“Oh!” Butters said and turned to Kyle with a piteous expression. “Yeah, he said he was moving to New York soon.”

“Tonight,” Kyle corrected bitterly. “His train is tonight.”

“He didn’t seem too excited about it either,” Kenny said, watching eagerly for Kyle’s reaction.

Kyle was careful to give him none, out of spite. “Oh, really?” he said casually. “How interesting.”

“ _Very_ interesting,” Kenny said. “Don’t suppose you’d have anything to do with that, would you?”

Kyle looked down his nose at Kenny. “What exactly are you implying?” He took a haughty and much less hasty sip of his drink.

Kenny sighed, and sat back in his chair. “I’m asking if you fucked Stan and then broke his heart.”

Kyle choked on his drink.

“Kenny!” Butters batted him on the arm as Kyle bent double, coughing.

“What?” Kenny put his hands up defensively, “You told me I should quit implying things! I’m trying out a more direct approach.” He peered at Kyle for his input. “How was that for you? Better? Or do you prefer vaguely suggestive comments?”

“Neither!” Kyle wheezed.

“See, that wasn’t an option.”

“Wishful thinking,” Kyle grumbled. He sat up straight and recomposed himself. “And for your information, no. Stan and I didn’t—uh.” He stopped and waved his hands ambiguously. “ _You know_.”

“Oh, I certainly do,” Kenny smirked.

“So it wasn’t you who broke his heart, then?” Butters asked.

Kyle crossed his arms, “Is that what he said I did?”

“He didn’t need to say it,” Butters knocked his fists together, “It was written all over his face.”

“And also on his tab,” Kenny added helpfully. “Which was very long.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one to break his heart,” Kyle huffed. “He did a pretty fine job of doing it to himself.”

“Mm, he does have a habit of doing that,” Kenny mused.

Kyle decided to give up on pretending not to care. “So what did he say about me?” He addressed the question to Butters, so that he would not have to see the smug look on Kenny’s face. Not that he needed to look – he could _feel_ it emanating from him anyway.

“Um,” Butters scratched his head, “It was kind of hard to tell. He was already pretty hammered when we arrived. But he seemed… guilty, I suppose. Kind of skittish. Quiet for the most part, but when he did talk, it was in long tangential ramblings about how he’d messed everything up, and how it was all his fault, and—other unkind things about himself.”

Kyle groaned.

“See, Stan has two settings,” Kenny said. “Total denial of responsibility, or dead set on blaming himself for everything.”

“Is it too much to ask for somewhere in the middle?” Kyle grumbled.

“Yes,” Kenny said, at the same time Butters said, “No.”

Kyle just sighed.

“So what happened between you two exactly?” Kenny asked eagerly. “If you didn’t fuck?”

Kyle flinched. He wished Kenny would phrase his questions just a little less shamelessly. “We sort of, um, kissed a bit,” Kyle mumbled. Putting it like that made it sound far less significant than it had felt at the time, but he couldn’t help but doubt himself in retrospect.

“Oh,” Kenny said, “is that all?”

That didn’t make Kyle feel much better. “After that, things went… quite badly.”

“How badly?”

“We almost died.”

Kenny gawked at him. “That is _quite_ bad. How do you get from a bit of kissing to a near death experience?”

“Surprisingly quickly, actually,” Kyle said, before adding firmly, “And no, I’m not telling you the details, so don’t even bother asking.”

“Spoil sport.” Kenny wrinkled his nose. “What’s the point of recounting a story if you leave out all the good bits?”

Kyle shot him a dirty look. “You’re lucky I’m telling you any of it.”

“Right, right. We should be eternally grateful to be graced by your presence.”

Kyle bit back a retort, and let it go. “The point is that I think Stan blames himself for not being able to protect me. Which is idiotic,” he scowled, “because that’s not his responsibility. I can look after myself.”

“Even though you did almost die,” Kenny conveniently reminded him.

“But I didn’t actually die, though, did I?” Kyle gestured to himself as if proof were needed. “Thanks to _me_. I saved us.”

“You did?”

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

“Sorry,” Kenny shrugged, “I just didn’t think you had it in you. You’re just so…” he waved his hand at Kyle as if that were explanation enough.

“Yes, well, you weren’t right about _everything_ about me.”

“But I was right about some things, wasn’t I?” Kenny grinned at him devilishly. “I mean, I did call it from the start. That you would be,” he made a show of looking around warily before whispering, “ _one of our lot._ ”

Kyle felt his ears growing hot. “Yes, yes, you’re very inciteful.” Kenny cackled in delight and Kyle had to clench his jaw to keep himself from boiling over.

“When was the last time you talked to Stan?” Butters asked, before Kenny’s gloating was enough to push Kyle over the edge.

“Not since that night we almost died,” Kyle said. “About three weeks ago.”

“That’s a mighty long time.”

“It’s not that long,” Kyle shifted in his seat self-consciously.

“It’s enough time for Stan to convince himself it really is all his fault,” Kenny said, and Kyle sighed.

“I doubt he would have listened. I know where I’m not wanted.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re afraid of getting rejected.”

“No!” Kyle said defensively. “Well—Um. I mean…” He trailed off and scowled. “Oh, damn you. I wish you’d go back to implying things. I think I liked it a lot better.”

Kenny gave Butters an _I-told-you-so_ look.

“So that’s why you’re letting him leave without saying goodbye?” Butters asked, pointedly ignoring Kenny.

“I guess.” Kyle traced his finger around the rim of his glass. “I overheard him saying some things to Wendy, right before I left. About how he wished I’d never joined the case. You can imagine why I’m not exactly optimistic. But—” He set his jaw resolutely, “It’s for the best.”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Ah, that’s what you’ve told yourself, is it?”

“You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like. How he makes me feel.” Kyle kept his gaze fixed on his glass to maintain the courage to keep the words tumbling out of his mouth. “With Stan—It’s like I’m addicted to him. He’s just intoxicating. He clouds my rationality and makes me feel giddy and impulsive and out of control. Even him just _looking_ at me makes me feel weightless. And when I’m not with him everything just seems empty and colourless and grey and all I can think about is him and being with him and touching him and tasting him and everything, _everything_ about him makes me feel—I don’t know how to describe it, exactly.” He swallowed nervously. “It’s like he consumes me. Like I can’t tell where I start, and he ends. And it’s scary.” He looked up at Kenny. “It’s terrifying, actually.”

Kenny was gazing at him with a funny sort of expression. “Kyle,” he said, and he leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you mind if I speak candidly?”

“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

“That,” he said, “is bullshit.”

Kyle frowned. “Excuse me?”

Butters elbowed Kenny meaningfully, but he wasn’t finished. “’Addicted?’” he said, “Really? _That’s_ what you think this is?” He looked like maybe he was holding back a laugh.

“Well, that’s what it feels like!” he snapped.

“Jesus Christ, Kyle,” Kenny shook his head, “you’re not addicted to Stan, you’re in love with him.”

The colour drained from Kyle’s face. “I’m—I’m what?”

“He makes you feel nervous, weak at the knees. You spend all your time thinking about him but then when you’re with him you feel all flustered and can’t think what to say. Everything he does seems to be the most beautiful thing in the world, and when he smiles at you—God, it just makes your heart _sing_.” His smile seemed almost nostalgic, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “You’d do anything in the world, just to get Stan to smile at you.”

“I… Yes.” Kyle blinked. “Exactly that, actually.”

“Well, that’s a funny little thing called love.”

“Oh, honestly,” Butters poked Kenny playfully, “you’re so cliché.”

“Maybe,” Kenny shrugged. “But someone had to tell him.”

“Mm, but I wanted to see if he’d figure it out for himself first.”

“You knew too?” Kyle cried. “You knew I was in love with him?”

Butters smiled at him sheepishly. “It was kind of obvious.”

“It _was_?”

“Yeah,” he giggled, “it was.”

“Oh, God,” Kyle put his head in his hands. “And Stan, did he know too?”

“That depends,” Kenny said. “Did he kiss you first, or did you kiss him?”

“He kissed me.”

“Then yeah. He knew.”

Kyle looked up at him in dismay. “Then Wendy must have known, too, and maybe even Tweek, and—and how did everyone know except me?”

“Because, Kyle,” Kenny said gently, “you are as big of an idiot as Stan is.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kyle glowered at him. “How do you know so much about this whole thing anyway?”

“Oh, come now,” Kenny smirked at him. “Have you really not figured that out by now?”

Kyle looked at him blankly. Then, with a start, he got it. “Oh. Oh! _Oh!_ ” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait, hang on. I just—No. Really?”

Kenny nodded, “Uh-huh.”

“Stan and _you_?”

“You bet,” he said with glee.

“When?” Kyle asked in amazement.

“During the war.” Kenny ran a hand through his hair, “And a little bit after.”

Kyle shook his head in disbelief. “I have _so_ many questions.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Kenny winked at him. “I will happily answer all of them.”

Kyle blushed at the image that popped into his head, and so he began to ask the question he knew he probably shouldn’t but was dying to know anyway. “Did you two, like actually, _you know_ —” Kyle stopped when Butters shot him a warning glance.

“I don’t think you need the details,” he said, placing a possessive hand on Kenny’s thigh.

Kenny got the memo that perhaps his boyfriend wasn’t entirely comfortable with him discussing his past relationships like this. “Right, sorry, love.” He put an affectionate arm around Butters, conveniently pulling him close enough that he wouldn’t see Kenny mouth ‘ _A lot,’_ to Kyle, who blushed harder.

“Wow,” Kyle breathed. “I mean… I guess it makes sense. I always did wonder who Stan cheated on Wendy with. And how you two knew each other.”

“You just never thought it would have been in the biblical sense,” Kenny grinned.

“Kenny!” Butters whined.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Kyle thought it was funny that a prostitute might get sensitive about this sort of thing, but he supposed sex with and without emotional investment were two different things.

“Well,” Kenny said, glancing at the clock, “I suppose you’ll be rushing off.”

“Why?”

“You said Stan was leaving tonight. You’ll want to say goodbye before then, won’t you?”

Kyle’s stomach dropped. He’d been so busy thinking about how he was in love with Stan that he’d forgotten that very same man was about to board a train to New York in less than an hour. “Oh, shit.” He jumped to his feet, “You’re right.” He was about to dash for the door, but stopped, and turned back to them. “Um, thank you guys. For everything.”

“Anytime,” Kenny beamed at him, then winked. “Now go give Stan the send-off his deserves.”

\---

The train was late, and Stan’s socks were wet. He stood on the empty platform, occasionally rocking forward to peer down the barren tracks for any sign of life, but the only movement was the rain outside the station as it fell to earth.

A droplet of water slithered from a crack in the high ceiling and landed directly on the back of Stan’s neck. His gloved grip on the handle of his suitcase tightened as it trickled down his back, like an icy tongue. It felt like one last _fuck you_ from South Park before he deserted this wretch of a city.

His sigh billowed out in a cloudy puff in front of him. _Like cigarette smoke_ , he thought. God, he could do with another one of those. He’d kept himself sober for tonight, not trusting himself to change trains at the right place otherwise and had made up for it by leaning heavier on his other crutch: nicotine.

He dug in his pocket, but all he found was his collection of tickets for the journey ahead. Pip had posted them to him, along with detailed instructions on where to go and when, and the promise of compensation for hotels. He checked his other pocket and was rewarded by the discovery of his packet of cigarettes – which tragically only had two remaining. He selected one and raised it to his lips to light, but then he felt it. The presence.

Kyle.

This past week had been an almost constant feeling he was being followed. It had become less like Kyle was haunting him, and more like he was a weight, chained to Stan’s ankles, begging him not to move. Stan was only being foolish. He knew this, of course. He was just projecting his guilt onto thin air. But that didn’t make a difference to how real Kyle felt, standing behind him. He could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck.

Stan sighed again. He knew that the platform was empty, except himself. Himself, and the Kyle shaped shadow that fell behind him.

He screwed his eyes shut tight. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“Stop pushing me away.”

Stan damn near jumped out of his skin. It was a good job he hadn’t been leant forward at the time, or he might have toppled over the edge and onto the tracks before him. As it was, his cigarette took the fall instead, forgotten in his haste to whirl around to confront the voice behind him.

There he was. Kyle. The _real_ Kyle, not some ghost. In his tan trench coat, a little soaked from the rain. “Well?” he said, expectantly.

“Um,” Stan gulped. “Nice hat.”

Kyle’s hand went to his head, where Stan’s blue bobble hat he’d leant him a while ago was secured, ginger frizz visible beneath. “That’s all?” His eyebrows pinched together. “You’ve not talked to me for three weeks!”

“Neither have you,” Stan retorted automatically.

Kyle glowered at him. “Only because I knew you didn’t want to talk to _me_.”

“Why would you think that?”

Kyle looked away. “I just… guessed it?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Kyle. I’ve said so before.”

“Yes, well, you’ve said a lot of things,” Kyle muttered, before admitting, “I overheard you. In the hospital. With Wendy.”

“Oh,” Stan said. He scuffed his boots on the cobbled floor. “Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve learnt a lot of things since then.”

A low whistling from down the track caught their attention. A steam train, accompanied by a plume of smoke, was chugging towards them.

Stan looked back at Kyle, whose gaze was still fixed on the train, pained expression on his face. Stan had been impatiently awaiting its arrival, but now it was here, he wished he could turn it around and send it back from whence it came.

Kyle felt him staring at him and looked desperately back at him.

They were running out of time, and Stan had so many things he wanted to say, and his heart was bursting out of his chest, but all his words had left him. All he could muster was to say, again, “I really do like the hat on you.”

“I like it on me, too.” Kyle smiled at him, almost shyly. “I didn’t have time to find my other one anyway, I was too rushed with gathering my things.”

“What?” Stan frowned.

And then Kyle stepped to the side, to reveal a suitcase behind him.

Stan looked at it, and then at Kyle, and then back at the suitcase again. “What’s that for?” he asked needlessly.

Kyle squared his shoulders. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” he said firmly. “This train is going to pull into the station, and then you and I are going to get on it _together_.” He jabbed a finger at Stan’s chest. “Capiche?”

“But—”

“Don’t you dare try to argue this, Stan Marsh. You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.” He crossed his arms. “Just because you’re a stubborn bastard doesn’t mean you get to win all our fights. I’m coming with you.”

“Alright, alright!” Stan put his hands up. “All I was going to say is that you don’t have a ticket.”

Kyle stared at him in disbelief. He said something, but it was drowned out by the squeal of the train coming to halt behind him.

“What?” Stan asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I—I just thought you might need more convincing than that,” Kyle said. “I had a whole speech prepared and everything. It was going to really knock your socks off.”

“You could say it anyway,” he offered.

“No,” Kyle sulked. “You’ve ruined it now.”

“Sorry,” Stan said sarcastically. “I’ll try to be more of a predictable asshole next time.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Kyle said. He looked away, and mumbled, “I still can’t believe you’ve agreed to this.”

“Of course I did, Kyle. I’ll always give in to you.”

“You will?”

“I can’t help it.” Stan shrugged. “It’s just the damned effect you have on me.”

“Oh.” Kyle smiled, and warmth spread across Stan’s chest at the sight of it again. God, he’d missed that smile.

“You really do need a ticket though,” Stan said.

“I’ve got lots, actually.” Kyle dug in his pocket, pulled out a wad of papers and waved them under his nose. “So there.”

Stan pulled his head back to avoid being slapped in the face by them. “When did you get those?”

“Pip sent them to me. Even though I told him I wasn’t going,” Kyle tutted. “I guess he knew I couldn’t say no in the end.”

“He was pretty confident I wouldn’t either.”

“Well, I’m glad neither of us after all.” Kyle glanced around the station apprehensively. “I could do with a break from this city.”

“What about the inheritance case you were working on?” Stan asked. “Pip mentioned it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It was more Dad helping Heidi with it than me. And those two are non-stop motor mouths when they’re together. I can hardly get a word in edgewise.”

“Well, I imagine you’ll be glad to escape that, too.”

“Rather,” Kyle snorted.

The conductor’s whistle sounded.

“We’d better board,” Kyle said, “Else the train will leave without us.”

“Right,” Stan said, “Of course.” They found their carriage and Stan hauled his luggage through the door before helping Kyle with his own. This was easier said than done.

“Jesus, what have you got in here?” Stan panted once they’d got it on board and tucked in the compartment above their seats.

“Books, mostly.”

“They have books in New York!”

“But not _my_ books.” Kyle retorted as he plopped into the window seat. The bulb that lit the train compartment was dim and flickering slightly, illuminating him in a soft, gentle glow. He was beautiful.

Stan slid in beside him. “I really wish I could kiss you right now,” he whispered.

“ _Stan!_ ” Kyle hissed. He blushed, which was what Stan had been after. “Not here.”

“What? It’s an empty carriage.” Stan smiled slyly at him. “It’s just the two of us.”

“For now. The ticket conductor will be here any minute.”

“Oh, you’re far too sensible,” Stan grumbled.

“It’s one of my many virtues.”

Sure enough, the conductor came passing through to tear their tickets, but she didn’t linger, just carried on to the next carriage.

The train began to move, pulling out of the station and into the night. South Park drifted by in a blur, backed by the hum of the wheels on the track and the gentle tapping of the rain on the window.

“When are we getting off again?” Stan asked.

“The next one. Griffith’s Station,” Kyle said, “In about four hours.”

“Right,” Stan yawned, “Good to know.”

“Did you _not_ know that?”

“I did! I just… forgot for a moment.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I did come.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan waved a hand dismissively. He rooted around in his pocket for his lighter and last cigarette.

Kyle gave him a judgemental look.

“You can smoke in here!” Stan said defensively. He placed it between his lips and tried to light it. His thumb slid several times over the wheel, but to no effect.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kyle snorted, plucking the cigarette and lighter from Stan’s hands.

“Thanks,” Stan said, but pre-emptively as Kyle simply pocketed them both instead. “Oi! Give that back.”

“Sorry,” Kyle grinned at him. “I need your mouth free.”

“For what, exactly?”

“This.”

And then Kyle kissed him, and all the complaints Stan had lined up disappeared. This was a lot better than a cigarette.

He had spent a lot of time thinking about what it had felt like to kiss Kyle, so much so that he had forgotten which were real and which were his imagination, filling in the gaps. Kissing him for real was so much better than he had remembered. Everything Kyle did was so sincere, from the way he drew his legs up under him to angle himself better, to the way his tongue explored Stan’s teeth. Kyle brought his fingers up to trace along the back of Stan’s neck, and Stan flinched away.

“Jesus, your hands are freezing,” Stan said.

“Sorry,” Kyle said, and then he grinned, and shoved them up underneath Stan’s shirt.

“You bastard!” Stan squealed and wriggled away.

“I’m just trying to warm them up,” Kyle said innocently. “I couldn’t find my gloves.”

“Here.” Stan took off his own and held them out for Kyle to slide his hands into.

“Thanks,” he said, and touched his fingers to Stan’s face. “Is that better?” he whispered, and then they were kissing again.

Another thing Stan liked about kissing Kyle, he thought, was how needy he was. He kissed like Stan’s mouth was his only source of oxygen, begging for more and smiling when he got it. Stan pushed his fingers through Kyle’s curls, and they caught on a tangle, jerking his head slightly, and Kyle let out an unexpected moan.

Kyle clapped his hands over his mouth, mortified.

Stan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Like that, do you?”

Kyle turned as red as a tomato. “We should stop,” he mumbled, bending to pick up his hat that Stan had knocked off. “We don’t want someone walking in on us.”

“Alright, fine, pretend that didn’t happen,” Stan grinned. “But I’m bringing this up again when we get to the hotel.” Was he mistaken, or was that a shiver he saw run down Kyle’s spine?

“Alright.” Kyle yawned. “In that case, I’ll get some sleep now.” He settled back against Stan, who slid his arm around him. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “It’s not the first time you’ve fallen asleep on me.”

“Don’t remind me,” Kyle groaned. “I shall simply die from embarrassment if you do.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Not at all,” Kyle said, closing his eyes.

“I suppose you wouldn’t want me to tell you that I found your Alfred Kinsey book, either.”

“You _what_?” Kyle shot up, staring at him.

Stan smirked at him.

“Oh my God, Stan!” Kyle whined. “When?”

“Shortly after you fell asleep on me.”

“That long ago? All this time you knew, and you never said?”

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t be pleased to hear it,” Stan shrugged. “It’s a good thing I decided not to tell you just now.”

Kyle huffed indignantly. “A very good thing indeed.”

“I’m sorry,” Stan said, and it was the first time an apology had ever come out like that: simple and easy, one which he didn’t regret immediately after saying it.

“It’s fine,” Kyle sighed, settling back into Stan’s chest. “I suppose it’s hardly a secret anymore anyway.”

They were quiet for a while. Stan was content to listen to the sound of the train, and the rain, and Kyle’s gentle breathing.

“Stan,” he said after a moment. “If I fall asleep, will you make sure we don’t miss our stop?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Have a little faith.”

“What was it called?”

“Um… It began with G.” He felt Kyle sigh against him.

“Good enough, I suppose.”

More silence, and then, “Stan?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Do you promise to finish kissing me later?”

“Kyle,” Stan said gently. “I don’t think I’ll ever be finished kissing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings.  
> \---  
> Wowee, I can't believe we've made it to the end. Well, sort of - stay tuned for the epilogue next week!
> 
> If you want a song to vibe to after this then “A Step You Can’t Take Back” by Kiera Knightly is pretty fitting :) - https://youtu.be/cQqRX0GC_6I   
> \---  
> Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this fic, feel free to drop me a kudos + comment - it really makes my day :) || Shoot me a message, ask or fic request on my Tumblr - https://fayoftheforest.tumblr.com


	15. Epilogue

“Carrots,” Tweek said thoughtfully, as he finished his morning coffee in bed.

“What about them?” Craig looked up from the book he had been reading.

“We need them for the dinner tonight. We’ve run out.” He held out his empty mug for Craig to set on the nightstand, “Could you—Ah, thanks.” He wriggled back under the covers, and Craig shifted to join him, sliding an arm around his waist. It just fit so naturally there.

“I could swing by the grocers later for you.”

“No,” Tweek hummed, “Let’s go to the market instead. The one on the Green, you know.”

“What’s wrong with the grocers?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. But the market is _fancier_.”

“I really don’t think they’ll be able to taste the difference between your garden variety grocers’ carrots and the artisanal organic ones.”

“You don’t know that!” he said. “Stan was going to become a professional chef. He could probably tell.”

“But it’ll be whizzed up anyway. How could he separate the carrot bit from the rest of the soup?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Tweek said, “I’m not a professional chef, am I?”

“Neither is he!”

“But he _almost_ was.” He felt the rush of air on the back of his neck as Craig laughed.

“Okay. Alright. I’ll buy you your superior carrots.”

“I’ll come with you. We can go together.”

“Do you not trust me to pick out the right ones?”

“I do! But I want to go anyway. It’ll be nice.” He pressed his back against Craig’s chest. “We’ll get breakfast.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tweek snorted, “I’d never be so bold.”

“Just checking.” Craig kissed the nape of his neck. “For a moment there I was worried you might have a crush on me.”

“Heaven forbid,” Tweek giggled. He gazed at the wall, lit a golden colour from the light seeping in through the curtains. “We need other things, too. Cumin. Kidney beans—”

“We’ve got a tin of them in the cupboard already,” Craig interrupted. “Or will Mr. Stan Marsh be above such a thing?”

“They’ll do,” Tweek said. He carried on composing his shopping list. “Fresh basil. A nice bottle of wine, maybe.”

“I thought you said Stan doesn’t drink anymore?”

“Shit, yeah. I’d forgotten.” The concept still seemed foreign to him. In his experience, Stan and alcohol were like north and south magnets, impossible to pry from one another. “I can’t believe Kyle’s got him to quit.”

“He’s a good influence on him, I think.”

“Do you think so?” Tweek twisted to look at Craig. “I wasn’t aware you had an opinion on him.”

“Well, that was just the impression I got. Am I wrong?”

“Probably not,” Tweek said as he moved back into his old position. “I mean, Stan seemed happy, when he phoned the other day. Enthusiastic, even. Usually he’s too cool for that sort of thing. Also, cumin.”

“What?”

“We need it.”

“Ah, I think you said that already.”

“Oh, yeah.” He shifted, nestling himself closer into Craig. “Tomatoes, as well. Bread. Sourdough, maybe? I think we already have stock cubes, so I don’t have to worry about that, and—” He stopped. “Craig.”

“Yes?”

“Craig Tucker.”

“Yes, Tweek Tweak?”

“Is me dictating a shopping list seriously making you hard right now?”

“Well, you keep fidgeting!” Craig spluttered. “And grinding up against me. I can’t help it.”

“Oh, you mean like this?” Tweek grinned, teasing his hips against Craig’s groin.

“I, ah—Something like that.”

“Really?” Tweek said as he kept going. “I can’t begin to think what this might have to do with anything.”

Craig snorted. “Perhaps you ought to stretch you mind a little further.”

“Perhaps I’ll stretch my hands there instead.” Tweek rolled over and traced his fingers along the waistband of Craig’s pyjama pants, then slipped them inside. Craig exhaled sharply and leant down to kiss Tweek. Tweek smirked when he pulled back. “Really, you’re acting very strangely.”

“Oh, stop it,” Craig rolled his eyes, but smiled too.

“Let me have my fun.”

“I’d rather _give_ you your fun.”

Tweek made his expression into one of utter confusion. “What does that mean?”

“I meant—” Craig stopped his earnest explanation and narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you bastard.”

Tweek cackled until Craig shut him up with another kiss.

“I can’t believe I fell for that.”

Tweek made jazz hands. “That’s _theatre_ , baby!” He kissed Craig again, felt him smile as he did so.

“Let’s keep it authentic from now on, okay?”

“Fine by me.”

After sex and a shower, Tweek dressed in front of the looking glass in the bedroom. He looked in the mirror, and he liked what he saw. His frame had filled out, and the colour was back in his no longer sallow cheeks. The bags under his eyes were still a permanent fixture, but they were less painful looking. He had successfully maintained the habit of brushing his hair for quite a while now, perhaps the most impressive feat of all.

\---

The market was busy enough that Craig half expected Tweek to change his mind and try to convince him to go home. Just a few months ago he would have avoided this place like the plague. But now he simply squared his shoulders and marched determinedly towards it. Craig couldn’t help but feel proud.

“Okay,” Tweek said, brandishing his shopping list like a weapon. “We know exactly what we want, and how much. Just stick to the plan. If we don’t get distracted, we’ll be fine.”

They wove their way through the stalls, stopping here and there to inspect the wares.

“Hey, look.” Craig nodded in the direction of a stall in which a sweet cinnamon smell was wafting from. “Let’s get some apple cider.”

“That’s not on the list!”

“Sure it is.” Craig tapped at the item marked ‘ _Breakfast_.’

“Cider isn’t breakfast.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t! Don’t undermine my system.”

“I’m not! I just—Hang on.” Craig dug out a pen from his pocket and nabbed the list from Tweek’s hands _._

“Hey! Give that back.”

“Just give me a second,” Craig said as he scrawled. “There you go.”

Tweek peered at the paper suspiciously. “You’ve added apple cider.”

“Well spotted.” Craig began to make his way to the stall in question. “Now we gotta have some. That’s the rule.”

“This feels like cheating,” Tweek muttered, but he followed Craig anyway.

They joined the line. The man in front of them was humming to himself, bobbing in time to his made up beat. There was something recognisable about the voice, and the back of his head, which was covered with short, mousy-brown hair.

“Clyde?” Craig said in surprise.

The man flinched, then froze.

“Clyde, is that you?”

“Um… No?”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No?”

“No, you’re not sure, or no, you’re not Clyde?”

The man paused. “I’m confused.”

Craig tutted, and put his hands on the man’s shoulders, turning him around. Clyde stared up at him sheepishly.

“Craig! Fancy meeting you here.”

“Where have you been, man? It’s been, like, two months! I thought you’d fallen off the face of the Earth.”

The customer in front of them moved to be served, and Clyde to the opportunity to detach himself from Craig’s grip, which had tightened on him, as if he were afraid Clyde might really float away if he let him go. “I’ve been, um, _around_ ,” Clyde said vaguely. “Job hunting’s time consuming, you know.”

“I guess.” Craig had had a hoard of questions for Clyde which he’d been sitting on for a while, but now he was in front of him, they all seemed to distort into one big ‘ _why?’_ and he didn’t think he’d get much of a satisfying answer for something like that.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Clyde asked, testing the waters. “Don’t you normally work Sundays?”

“New schedule,” Craig said. “Comes with the new position.”

“Oh,” Clyde said. “Right.”

Craig could not quite discern what his opinion on this was.

“Next, please.”

Clyde glanced at the woman working the stall and turned back to Craig. “You should tell Tweek he’s not very good at hiding behind you,” he said before stepping up to the counter. “I can see his elbows jutting out.”

“What the hell, Craig!” Tweek hissed. “Why did you get his attention?”

“Because I want to talk to him,” Craig said.

“But why?”

Craig just shrugged. “I have questions.”

“Well, so do I. But I don’t particularly feel like risking the answers!”

“Look at him.” Craig gestured to the man before them, chirping happily to the seller. “I don’t think he’s after a fight right now, do you?”

Tweek narrowed his eyes. “Just because he looks innocent doesn’t mean he is.”

“I know that,” Craig said, a little harsher than he meant to. “Sorry. But this is important to me. You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“Well I’m not leaving you here alone with _him_ ,” Tweek said, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Next, please.”

Clyde stepped to the side and looked like he was about to make a break for it, but Craig caught his arm before he could. The piping hot liquid sloshed over the edge and onto Clyde’s fingers. “Ouch!” He shoved them in his mouth to cool them down.

“Don’t think you can get away that easily.”

Clyde removed his fingers and gave him a diffident grin. “It was worth a try.”

“Sir, are you waiting in line?”

Craig turned back to the lady. He still had a hold of Clyde. “Hmm? Oh. Tweek, would you mind—”

“I got it.” Tweek said reluctantly. “You guys go find a seat. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

They found a picnic table. Craig slid in opposite from Clyde and scrutinised him, though he wasn’t sure what for. Cuts and bruises, maybe. Whatever the case, he couldn’t seem to find anything of note.

Clyde sipped cautiously at his too hot cider. “Are you mad at me?” he asked after a moment.

Craig didn’t really know how best to answer such an unexpected thing. “It’s a lot more complicated than that,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “You get that, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Clyde said. “At least, I think so. I get a lot of things now. But in a way it feels like I understand even less. If that makes sense.” He kicked at the grass beneath his feet. “Which it doesn’t, I guess.”

“It makes sense,” Craig said. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“In part. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking, and it was easier if I could do that by myself, you know.” He lowered his gaze to the wooden slats of the table. “And I figured you weren’t exactly eager to see me again, after everything that happened.”

“What are you including in that everything?”

“The, um, _thing_ with you and Tweek. And before then, what you said to me. And—And Thomas too, I think?” Clyde looked at him, as if awaiting confirmation, but Craig didn’t give him any.

“And that was what you were thinking about?”

“That, and other things. Oh, hi, Tweek.”

Tweek was standing at the head of the table, staring at Clyde like he was a tiger which at any point might pounce. He was holding a cider and a coffee, hands tremoring.

Craig took the drinks and set them down on the table before they could be upturned. “Sit,” he said, and Tweek did so, hovering on the edge of his seat.

“Why did you resign?” he blurted.

“Tweek!” Craig said. “Have a little tact.”

“I just can’t take the suspense,” he squealed. “And that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“That night, after I left,” Clyde interjected. “I went and I sat in my car. And I started driving. Just driving. No particular direction, no particular destination. I just drove, and I thought about what you’d said, and I thought about what I’d seen.” He blew across the top of his drink. “And I guess I was kind of disgusted, but also I was mostly just confused. Because you’re a good guy, Craig, I knew that. You’re careful and you’re confident and you’re—You just always seemed to know what the right thing to do was. And you always _did it_ , too.”

Craig had no trouble masking his surprise, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t.

“And so to find out that someone like you was a—a— _you know_. It flipped my world upside down. Especially after you’d given me the one answer I didn’t want to hear,” Clyde said. “That I didn’t deserve to be chief.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you _meant_ ,” Clyde said. “I mean, when you remind a guy that he’s responsible for one—almost two—murders, that’s a pretty clear insinuation.”

“Murders,” Tweek echoed.

“Yeah.” Clyde looked at him. “You were right. That’s what they were. I didn’t think of them that way before, because I always saw it through the lens of me being the good guy.” He looked to Craig. “But then you said what you said to me. And at first, I dismissed it, because it didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t assuming I was the good guy; I just _was_. Only, then I looked at things without that perspective. And slowly I started to realise that a lot of it was pretty hard to label as ‘good.’ If I’d done it without my uniform, no one would have called it noble behaviour. And that—God, that really frightened me. It was sickening, actually. To have the wool pulled back from my eyes and find my sins lined up neatly before me.” He gazed at his hands, as if he’d scooped all those sins up, and kept them cupped in his palms.

“So what did you do?” Craig asked as Clyde seemed lost in contemplation.

He looked back up at him. “I nearly crashed the car.”

“What? Jesus!”

“Not on purpose!” Clyde said. “I was distracted, and I ran a red. You know what they say.” He took a sip of his cider. “Don’t think and drive.”

“ _Do_ they say that?”

“Or, maybe that’s drink, I don’t know. It’s not important,” he said. “But this epiphany of sorts made me think differently about other things, too. Namely you two, and your… relations. And it still made me feel weird, because, _come on_.” He shook his head. “You’re Craig and you’re Tweek. Who would ever think it would be you two?”

Tweek glowered at him coldly. “It’s a real mystery, all right.”

“I didn’t mean any offence by it!” Clyde said hastily, lowering his voice. “Tweek, I’ve known you for my entire life. We grew up together. I guess I always wondered whether you were queer, because you never seemed to care much for the girls in our school. But to suspect and to know, outright, are two very different things. And—Craig, I always thought you were such a moral guy. So it was all just another layer of hurt and confusion.”

“Why would _you_ be hurt by that?” Tweek sniffed.

“Because I thought I knew you!” Clyde cried. “I thought I knew you were both good guys. Like me. But good guys don’t do stuff like _that_.”

Tweek flew to his feet. “Okay, I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “I don’t know why we even bothered in the first place, but—”

“Tweek,” Craig cut him off, “just a little longer, okay? Then we can go back to shopping.” He looked at him imploringly. “Please?”

“ _Ngh_ , fine,” Tweek muttered as he lowered himself stiffly back into place. He glanced at his watch. “But only until eleven-thirty. That’s in three minutes.” His hand found a chunk of his hair and he began tugging on it. Craig might have told him to stop, that he was hurting himself, but right now he let him be.

“If that’s all the case,” he addressed Clyde, “then how come you recommended me for chief?”

“Because my confidence in what constitutes a ‘good guy’ wasn’t exactly at its peak,” Clyde said. “And after a lot more thinking—and yeah, okay, maybe a little drinking—I came to the conclusion that maybe it wasn’t so awful, what you guys were doing. I mean, you were being decent about it, at least. And it’s not like you were hurting anyone. Not like I had.” He took a long gulp of his drink. “I still don’t understand it. I don’t think I ever will. But I don’t understand a lot of things, so that’s not really a good enough reason to justify condemning something. All I knew was that you had the opportunity to suck up to me, as your future boss, but instead you told me the truth. Because it was the right thing to do. And I realised given the choice, you would always choose what was right over what was easy. And that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’d be a better chief than me. Because I always take the easy way out.”

“Oh,” Craig said. “Well.” He tilted his head. “That’s certainly a lot of thinking you did there.”

“Don’t I know it,” Clyde laughed, and he sounded almost relieved, to finally get all that off his chest.

Craig was acutely aware they did not have much time left and wanted to make use of it as best he could. “So what are you doing now?” he asked. “You mentioned you’re job-hunting?”

“I _was_ ,” Clyde corrected. “Not anymore. It’s a funny story, actually. A little while ago, Heidi got in contact with me. Do you remember her? The boss’s old dame.”

“I do.”

“Well, she needed someone to testify about her relationship with Cartman. It was for an inheritance case. She had a kid with him, did you know that?” Clyde blew air out of puffed-up cheeks like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I did. I testified for her too, but on a different day, I guess.” He’d already known most of the details about Heidi’s relationship with Cartman, divulged to him over the course of his nights spent at Jimmy’s Ritz.

“Crazy, right?”

Craig shrugged ambiguously.

“Anyway, I mentioned I was looking for work, and she said the bar she used to work at was looking for a new doorman, after the last one quit.”

“Bradley quit?” Tweek exclaimed. “Ha! Good.” He crossed his arms smugly, as if he’d won the long game he’d been playing.

“Oh, did you know him?” Clyde asked.

“Unfortunately,” Tweek said with contempt.

“Well, I hope I’m a better door guy then he was, then.”

“Bradley wasn’t that bad,” Craig said, feeling he ought to defend him at least a little.

“Yes, he was,” Tweek said. “He was rude. And he always looked at me funny.”

“You think everyone looks at you funny,” Craig said, earning a huff from Tweek.

“Time’s up,” he said, presenting his watch. “Have you got all the answers you wanted?”

“I suppose.” Craig stood. “I’ll see you around, Clyde. Thanks for humouring me.”

“It’s the least I could do. But before you go,” Clyde said, rising too, “I just—I want to say… Sorry, I guess. And I know you’re not the only one I should be apologising to—Heck, you’re not even in the top fifty—but I think I ought to say it anyway. So, um. Sorry.”

Craig paused, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Clyde bowed his head slightly, and then he was off, draining his drink as he walked.

Craig looked down at his own cider and realised it had gone untouched. Still, at least it was cool enough not to burn his tongue anymore.

They resumed their shopping expedition. “Are you okay?” Craig asked.

“I’m fine.” Tweek did not look up from the carrots he was inspecting.

“Fine as in okay, or fine as in not actually okay?”

He selected a few and put them in a brown paper bag. “Yes.”

Craig looked at him in puzzlement. “It’s not a yes or no question.”

“Well, both then.” He handed the seller some change and turned to Craig. “I still feel weird about it. Talking to him. After everything. But I’ll be alright eventually.” He offered Craig a small smile. “I think I just need food in me.”

Craig felt a wave of affection for him. God, he loved him so much. Craig told him so every day, but sometimes he still surprised himself with it. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “There happens to be plenty to eat round here.”

“Good.” Tweek brought his knuckles up to Craig’s and brushed them together, smiling to himself. “Onwards we go.”

\---

“Oh man, I am so full. I think you’re gonna have to roll me along, Kyle.”

“Who says you won’t be the one rolling _me_ along instead?”

“Fine. We’ll roll together,” Stan chuckled. “Like two beach balls.” He tipped his head back to look up at the night sky as they walked back from Tweek and Craigs’, allowing Kyle to lead him by the hand, stumbling blindly down the dimly lit streets.

Kyle watched him admire the spectacle with some amusement. “Having fun?”

“Mm-hm,” he smiled.

“What are you thinking about?”

“About how when I was little, I used to imagine the sky as a thick, felt blanket. And all the stars were little stitches. I would fantasise about flipping it over and looking at all the tangled threads underneath.”

“How did you know they were tangled? It could have been just a lot of neat knots.”

“Because they’re not—Stars aren’t separate. They’re all intertwined, I thought, connected in a messy web of silver string. And it would be impossible to unpick even one, because they were so tightly woven together.”

“That’s probably for the best. Think of all the constellations to ruin if the stars started to unravel. Like, look—” Kyle pointed. “There’s Orion’s belt. Imagine if that came undone.”

“His pants would fall down,” Stan grinned. “Embarrassing.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine you’d complain much.”

“Oi!” Stan reared his head up to look at Kyle. His neck was getting sore anyway. “I have at least _some_ taste.”

“Debatable.”

“Beast,” Stan tutted, then kissed him on the cheek.

“Stan! What if someone sees?”

“You’re right.” Stan gestured at the deserted streets around them, “The hordes of people here might catch on.”

“You never know what’s lurking in the shadows.”

“Oh, come on. What would they do, call the police on us?” Stan pressed his hand to his chest dramatically. “Gosh, we might have to answer to the chief! _Oh wait_.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“I still can’t believe Craig’s the new chief,” Kyle shook his head. “That’s so weird to think about.”

“But he’s what South Park needs. A fresh face. He’ll be better than Cartman, at least.”

Kyle shivered. “Low bar.”

“Anyway, I wouldn’t worry. Tweek will keep him in check.”

Kyle scoffed. “I don’t think Tweek’s the boss in that household.”

“Hey, he’s certainly toughened up since we last saw him, hasn’t he?”

“I guess so.”

“He seems a lot more like his old self, I think,” Stan said. “From when I first met him. Less timid. Brighter and bubblier. And quite a bit healthier, too.”

“All I know is he makes very good food.”

“Agreed,” Stan said, cradling his stomach. “It was nice not to be the one to cook, for once.”

“Hey!” Kyle protested. “I cook sometimes!”

“You like _watching_ me cook,” Stan said. “And eating my food. That’s not the same.”

“That’s still a part of the process. I’m your muse if you will.”

“I will _not_.”

Kyle punched him in the arm. “Okay, Stan, you’ve caught me. I’m only dating you for the meals you make. I knew from the very first day you brought me chicken noodle soup that I just _had_ to make you mine.”

“At last, the truth comes out,” Stan rubbed his hands together. “You should have known you couldn’t keep it from me forever, Kyle. I am a master detective, after all—”

“Hush,” Kyle said abruptly, putting a hand on Stan’s chest. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A voice. A _familiar_ voice.” Kyle gritted his teeth. “A fucking obnoxious one.”

They rounded the corner and found the source: a man donned in an equally obnoxiously orange parka. He was leant casually against a streetlamp, arguing with a blond man who was bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kyle muttered. “We’re back in South Park for _one_ God damn day and he finds us. Of course he does.”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, the man looked up. A grin spread across his face like wildfire. “Doth mine eyes deceive me?” he proclaimed, _far_ too loudly, “or is that the infamous Marsh and Broflovski before me?”

Kyle let loose a weary sigh. “Hello, Kenny.”

Kenny took this as permission to dash forward and envelope them both in a clumsy hug. Butters joined them, wrapping his significantly shorter arms around the trio.

“I didn’t know you guys were back!” he chirped.

“Yeah, well, New York gets kind of boring when you’ve been conditioned to the hellscape of South Park,” Stan said, face was smushed against Kenny’s shoulder. This was the excuse he and Kyle had agreed on, to avoid giving away any details on the undercover case they had concluded as a success. “Hey, Ken, maybe you could loosen your grip just a little? What with the need to breath, and all that.”

“Right,” Kenny said as he released them.

Kyle groaned and rolled his shoulders back. “How are you so _strong_?” he complained. “You’re entirely skin and bones.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kenny said, making a show of flexing his arms. “I’m one hundred percent muscle.”

“That is not how anatomy works,” Kyle grumbled.

“So how long are you guys back here for?” Butters asked.

“We don’t really know,” Stan said. “We’re just playing it by ear.”

“Not long,” Kyle said, “Or maybe for good. We’ll see what turns up.” He was not particularly comfortable with this ‘no-plan’ plan, but he at least had some security: Stan. Whatever happened, they’d go through it together. That was comfort enough.

“How about you?” Stan asked. “What’s in store for you two?”

“Nothing particularly,” Kenny said, at the same time Butters proudly proclaimed, “Hawaii!”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “We are _not_ going to Hawaii.”

“Why not?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, Kenny,” Butters crossed his arms. “Why not?”

“You know why!”

“I don’t,” Butters said indignantly. “Hawaii would be lovely!”

“Not with the law on our tail!”

Butters huffed. “There’s no guarantee the law will be involved.”

“There usually is when it comes to theft.”

“Hang on, what?” Stan frowned. “Butters, what exactly is your idea here?”

Butters beamed at him. “I’m so glad you asked!”

“He wants to take money from Garrison.” Kenny said disdainfully. “We know where he keeps the cuts that he takes from us—”

“Absolutely huge cuts, mind you,” Butters interjected. “We’re talking, like, eighty percent. It’s _criminal_.”

“I’m not happy about it either, Butters, but what are we supposed to do about it? Form a workers union for prostitutes?”

“We take it back, that’s what!” Butters exclaimed. “And then we leg it to Hawaii to live out the rest of our days in tropical paradise.”

“Or in jail,” Kenny said. “Jail is also a possible outcome here.”

“Oh, what’s Garrison gonna do about it? We’ll be long gone by the time he figures out something’s missing, and he can hardly call the police. What would he say to them? ‘Sorry, officer, but two of my homosexual prostitutes have taken all my pimp money?’ He’d be the one locked up, not us!”

“It’s too risky!”

“So what?” Butters threw his hands in the air. “Kenny, I’m tired of just _hoping_ something good will happen to us eventually. Because it won’t. If we want it, we have to take it ourselves.”

Kenny sighed, and turned away from Butters. “Kyle, you’re always mind-numbingly sensible,” he said. “Will you talk some reason into him?”

Kyle scowled. “Okay, first of all, I resent that label. Secondly…” He paused. “Butters is right. Do it.”

Butters let out a whoop of joy. “Alright!”

Kenny looked at Kyle in dismay. “Seriously?”

“You can’t just wait for things to get better by themselves,” Kyle said. “You have to take a leap of faith. Even if it’s scary.”

“But I just—” Kenny looked at the ground, and suddenly all his confidence was gone, and he seemed very small, and very vulnerable. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Kyle glared meaningfully at Stan. “Now, where have I heard that before?”

“Oh, will you _ever_ let that go?” Stan whined. “It was one time!”

Kenny perked up considerably. “Do not let that go!” he said eagerly. “I want to hear about this in excruciating detail.”

“Absolutely not,” Kyle said curtly.

“Can I at least guess?”

“Also no. We’re going now,” Kyle said, taking Stan firmly by the hand and beginning to lead him away. “We have places to be. And so do you.” He looked between Kenny and Butters. “Get out of here. You guys were always too good for South Park anyway.”

Kenny smiled and shook his head. “Who taught you to be so wise?”

“If you’re fishing for compliments, you’re not about to get any.”

He shrugged. “Worth a try.”

\---

Kyle and Stan were staying in Wendy’s spare bedroom until they found a place to live. They had already dropped their stuff off here earlier, suitcases deposited in their temporary bedroom. When they arrived back, however, they found she already had company.

“Kyle!”

He found himself pulled into the second unwanted hug of the evening. “Hi, Heidi,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the back. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” Stan drifted to the other corner of the low-lit living room, talking with Wendy in low voices.

“Oh, I’m not staying,” she said as she sat back down. “Wendy was just babysitting Bobby whilst I got some work done with Mr. Broflovski this evening.” She gestured to her son, who was conked out on the couch next to her. He looked so peaceful when he slept. Kyle could almost forget who his father was.

“I didn’t know you and Wendy knew each other,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Bobby.

“She wanted to interview me for the series of articles she was doing on Cartman, and we just sort of clicked,” Heidi said. “We have a lot in common.”

A Wendy and Heidi double act was daunting, so say the least. “So, how are you finding being my successor as a paralegal?” Kyle asked.

“It’s a whole lot nicer than cleaning or waitressing,” she said. “It makes me remember why I went to law school in the first place. I actually find this stuff _interesting_.” She clasped her hands together. “And I’ve almost saved up enough to move into a less mould-ridden apartment, too.”

“That’s great,” Kyle said, and he really meant it. He was happy for her. Things still didn’t feel normal between them, but he doubted they ever would. That was okay. He never liked their version of normal anyway. “How’s my dad treating you? Working you to the bone, I expect.”

“Yeah. It’s this case we’re doing, we—” She stopped as Bobby stirred. He blinked and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Mommy?”

“Hi, sweetie,” she smiled. “You ready to go home now?”

“Uh-huh,” he said sleepily, and then caught sight of Kyle, and smiled. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” Kyle crouched down so that he was on his level. Bobby had got used to him being around during the period Kyle had worked with Heidi on the inheritance case.

“Did Wendy babysit you, too?” Bobby asked.

“No,” Kyle laughed. “I’m a bit too big for that now.”

“Oh,” Bobby said, disappointed. “I hope I get big like you soon. It’s very dull, being babysitted.”

“Is it?” Kyle asked. Much as he wanted to, he did not correct Bobby’s grammar.

“Yes!” Bobby threw his arms out dramatically. “She won’t even let me play with her typewriter!”

Kyle gasped. “How cruel of her!”

“I know,” Bobby huffed.

On the other side of the room, something Wendy had said made Stan shriek, and she lapsed into giggling. Kyle shot Stan an inquisitive look, but Stan just waved him away, red cheeked.

Bobby hopped down from the sofa. “Let’s go,” he said, with more authority than a four-year-old ought to have. Heidi allowed herself to be tugged to the door.

“Are you going back to New York eventually or is this a permanent stay?” she asked as she did up Bobby’s shoes.

“I’m not about to take my job back from you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Kyle said.

“It’s not! Well, not completely.”

Kyle glanced back at Stan, and found he was watching them with a soft sort of expression, one which made Kyle’s heart flutter, even after all this time. “I think we’ll stick around,” he said.

He re-joined Stan’s side after Heidi had left. Wendy was in the middle of giving him a rundown of where everything was kept, should there be any sort of emergency in the middle of the night.

“And if you need anything else, I’m just down the hall,” she said, finishing her monologue.

“I know which one is your bedroom, Wendy, I used to live here,” Stan said. “Everything will be fine. I promise not to light any fires whilst you’re asleep, and if I do, I’ll be sure to warn you ahead of time.”

“Can’t be too careful,” she said, eyes twinkling, and disappeared off to bed.

Stan watched her go with a bemused expression. “Come on,” he said, lacing his fingers with Kyle’s, “Let’s call it a night.”

Kyle located Stan’s pyjamas in the suitcase for him because he didn’t trust Stan not to mess up all the neatly folded clothes. He carefully removed his own and pulled his sweater off over his head. He started unbuttoning his shirt but stopped when he caught Stan staring. “What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Cause you’re cute,” Stan shrugged, “and I get to do that now. Look at you, without worrying you’ll see me watching.”

Kyle smiled as he finished getting changed. “I _always_ notice, Stan.”

“Not always. Not when you’re asleep.”

“You watch me whilst I sleep?” he wrinkled his nose. “Creepy.”

“Not in a weird way!” Stan said defensively. “Just, you know. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and I see you lying there, and I think to myself, God, how lucky am I that I get to be here next to you?”

“It’s certainly a privilege.”

“And then I think, God, how much nicer is he when he shuts up for once?”

“Hey!” Kyle exclaimed, and Stan cackled.

“Kidding, kidding.”

Kyle grumbled to himself as he switched out the light and got into bed. The sheets were cool and crisp. He gravitated automatically to Stan, his only source of heat.

“You’re shivering,” Stan said softly as he threaded his arm around Kyle.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s not _that_ cold.” This was an argument they had almost daily, an affectionate ritual of sorts. “Well, here,” Stan said, “Let me warm you up.” He slid on top of Kyle, pressing him into the mattress, dipping his head, so their noses were touching. “Better?”

“Much,” Kyle said, and then he kissed him. Their tongues slid together, they way they had now many times before, but it still felt new and exciting. Every time they kissed Kyle found something new to love about Stan. Right now it was his warmth. He hugged Stan closer, wrapping his legs around him and pushing his hands up under his shirt.

Stan pulled back. “Are you only kissing me because you want to steal my body heat?” he asked.

“No! It’s just a nice side effect.”

Stan chuckled, and went back to kissing him. He began working his way down Kyle’s neck, biting gently at the exposed skin.

“What did Wendy say to you earlier?” Kyle asked.

Stan looked up. “When?”

“You know when.”

“Oh, _then_ ,” Stan said, rolling off of him. “She, um, she said that she approved of you. As like, a boyfriend.”

Kyle raised his eyebrows. “Really? I could never tell if she liked me or not.”

“She does. And then,” he said, and he sounded almost embarrassed, “she said you’d make a good dad.”

Kyle made a noise halfway between a cough and a laugh. “She said that, did she?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s cute, watching you talk to Bobby. You take everything he says really seriously. I think he likes that.”

“I’ve never really thought about all that before,” Kyle said. “Kids. Having them, that is.”

“I mean, it’s not really an option for us, is it?” Stan said.

“I don’t know,” said Kyle, “Ike’s always talked about wanting to adopt a million children when he’s older. We could always steal one of his. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t even notice, if he had that many,” Stan giggled.

“We’ll just replace it with a doll. He’ll be none the wiser.” They laughed, and kissed some more, and let the topic drop.

“Kyle?” Stan said, after a long stretch of silence.

“Hm?”

“Are you awake?”

“Why, were you planning on watching me again?”

“No. Sorry. Um, never mind,” Stan said, turning over to face the wall.

“What is it?” Kyle put his hand on Stan’s shoulder and rolled him back so they were facing each other.

“I just—I wanted to say I love you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Kyle whispered. “Right.” He was glad to have the cover of darkness to hide the blush that was spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Stan said. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I knew,” Kyle said breathlessly. “But it’s nice to be certain.”

“Okay, good,” Stan said, and he kissed Kyle, first on the forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and then his lips, ever so softly. “Goodnight.”

Kyle lay there quietly, staring up at the ceiling. “Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.” And though he couldn’t see a thing, he could feel the warmth of Stan smiling at him through the darkness. And that was answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Content warning: Sex references; Homophobia.  
> \---  
> WOW. We made it to the end! Well done with sticking with me (〃^∇^)ﾉ I want to say a huge great big massive-o thank you to all the wonderful people who have left kudos and comments on this fic, as well as HamiltrashLyzer1 on DeviantArt for the illustration! You lot gave me the motivation to keep on chugging! I love you to bits <3
> 
> So, what comes next? I'm so glad you asked...
> 
> I will be writing more South Park stories. Hooray! I'm already in the early stages of planning my next long-form fic. However, it might be a little while until I upload it, as I'd like to write the whole thing before I do so. It turns out trying to plan, write and edit a ten thousand word chapter a week isn't an easy thing to do? Who knew! I certainly didn't before I started this. But, in the meantime, I will be writing one-shots and other shorter fics, so you can look forward to those too! Be sure to subscribe to my AO3 account so you can get notified when I post :) If you have any requests for certain pairings or premises, now's the perfect time to shoot 'em my way.
> 
> I also intend on going back and rewrite/edit SPC. Mostly just to clean up any typos, inconsistencies and unintentional repetitions, but also to aim to generally improve the writing, as I have learnt a lot of new lessons throughout the course of drafting this. The plot will remain the same, of course, but maybe I'll add an extra scene or two? We shall see.
> 
> Thanks again to all my wonderful readers! That's all for now, folks...
> 
> \- Fay :)
> 
> **Edit:** OOPS just popping back because I forgot to say 'do let me know if you're interested in becoming a beta reader for upcoming fics :)' Okay, bye again!


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